m\ 


P 

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LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


THE   SOUTHERNERS 


"  I  give  you  the  South,  gentlemen ! 


THE 

SOUTHERNERS 

A  STORY  OF  THE  CIVIL  WAR 


BY 


CYRUS   TOWNSEND    BRADY 

AUTHOR  OF  "FOR  LOVK  OF  COUNTRY,"  "FOR  THE  FREEDOM  OF  THE  SEA, 

"HOHENZOLLERN,"  "THE  QUIBERON  TOUCH,"  "WOVEN  WITH 

THE  SHIP,"  "IN  THE  WASP'S  NEST,"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

GEORGE   WRIGHT 

WITH    VIGNETTES    BY 

LOUIS    D.   ARATA 


CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
NEW  YORK:::::::::::::::::  1903 


COPYRIGHT,  1902,  BY 
CYRUS  TOWNSEND  BRADY 

COPYRIGHT,  1903,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


All  rights  reserved 
Published,  March,  1903 


ffo 

THE   MEN   WHO   FOUGHT 
AND  THE  WOMEN  WHO  COULD  ONLY  WAIT 


PREFACE 

THERE  is  in  my  mind  a  picture  of  the  days  of 
Sixty-one-Sixty-five.  I  close  my  eyes,  and  out  of 
the  mists  of  the  past  there  rises  before  me  an  old 
white  house  on  a  hill.  It  is  springtime.  A  child  is 
playing  in  the  grass  under  the  trees.  A  woman 
watches  at  the  gate.  And  a  soldier  comes  home  from 
the  wars.  A  soldier,  sick,  worn,  weary;  a  haggard, 
broken  wreck  of  the  brave  young  man  who  left  all 
at  his  country's  first  appeal  and  looked  not  back  so 
long  as  he  had  strength  to  stand.  His  fighting  days 
are  over.  And  the  woman  meets  him  at  the  gate 

They  come  down  the  long  walk  under  the  trees 
toward  the  little  lad,  the  woman  proudly  supporting 
the  man's  faltering  steps.  The  child,  who  has  grown 
to  step  and  speech  while  the  man  has  been  absent, 
shrinks  away  from  the  tired  figure  in  the  dusty  faded 
Army  blue,  who  stretches  out  trembling  hands  to  him 
with  words  of  affectionate  appeal.  The  little  boy  does 
not  recognize  the  stranger  until  he  is  caught  up 
against  that  brave  heart  and  hears  the  words,  "My 
son,  my  son!" 

I  close  my  eyes  and  see  once  more  my  Father,  as  I 
saw  him  on  that  day  nearly  forty  years  ago. 

vii 


PREFACE 

And  I  open  them  again  and  my  glance  falls  upon 
a  daughter  of  the  Carolinas,  my  wife.  Her  children 
and  mine,  typical  of  an  United  People,  cluster  about 
us.  They  look  at  me,  some  out  of  the  blue  eyes  of 
the  North,  others  from  the  brown  ones  of  the  South, 
and  beg  for  a  story — a  world-wide,  world-old  appeal ! 

Can  I  speak  to  them  of  that  great  war  when  State 
faced  State  and  Section  met  Section  in  our  beloved 
land?  Can  I  show  them  another  flag  than  that  they 
love  that  now  flutters  wellnigh  round  the  world? 
Can  I  tell  the  splendid  story  of  men  of  valor  and  con 
secration  who  differed  so  radically  that  only  in  the 
shock  of  battle  could  they  compose  their  differences? 
Can  I  tell  these  things,  on  the  one  hand,  without  being 
false  to  the  principles  for  which  my  father  fought, 
which  are  my  own ;  and,  on  the  other,  without  giving 
offence  or  bitterness  to  those  I  love,  who  were  on  the 
other  side?  Can  I  be  entirely  fair?  Can  I,  can  any 
one,  to-day  write  of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  so  that 
they  shall  both  approve? 

Long  ago  I  said  to  myself  that  some  day  I  would 
try,  and  now,  gentle  reader,  it  is  for  you  to  say  if  I 
have  succeeded,  or  if  I  have  failed. 

A  word  or  two  more.  This  book  has  been  years 
in  preparation.  The  subject  has  appealed  to  me  as 
none  other  in  our  history.  I  have  watched  the  even 
ing  camp-fires  under  the  trees  at  Chickamauga,  while 
I  wore  the  Army  uniform,  and  have  fancied  I  was  an 
actor  in  that  tremendous  cataclysmic  battle,  than  which 

viii 


PREFACE 

this  continent  has  seen  none  more  desperate  and  bloody. 
I  have  stood  in  the  rain  on  the  ramparts  of  Fort  Mor 
gan,  and  involuntarily  looked  toward  the  staff  for 
a  glimpse  of  the  Stars  and  Bars,  flag  of  a  cause  that 
was  lost.  I  have  sailed  in  the  sunshine  through  the 
channel  where  the  Tecumseh  sank,  where  the  Tennessee 
fought  the  fleet,  where  the  Hartford,  carrying  Farra- 
gut's  flag,  dashed  ahead  and  ran  down  the  torpedo  line 
— once  I  wore  the  Navy  blue — and  I  could  almost  hear 
the  thunder  of  the  guns. 

Ought  I  to  apologize  in  this  place  for  appropriating 
to  Peyton  the  glory  of  another  when  I  put  him  in 
the  Metacomet's  cutter  between  the  fort  and  the  ships  ? 
Well,  this  was  as  brave  an  act  as  was  ever  done  by 
any  United  States  naval  officer,  yet  the  name  of  the 
man  who  did  it,  Acting-Ensign  Henry  C.  Neilds,  is 
quite  forgotten  to-day.  He  deserves  to  be  remembered 
with  Decatur  and  Gushing  and  Hobson,  and  I  am  glad 
to  be  able  to  call  attention  to  him  here.  He  had  the 
approval  and  admiration  of  our  greatest  Admiral,  one 
of  the  world's  sea-kings,  who  saw  him  do  it  all,  and 
perhaps  that  is  reward  enough. 

CYRUS  TOWNSEND  BRADY. 
BROOKLYN,  February,  1903. 


IX 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  I 
THE  STORM   BREWS 

:H AFTER  PAGE 

I.   THE  DREAMER        .        .        .        .        .        .        .      3 

II.   A  HARD  SITUATION  FOR  A  MODEST  MAN    .        .     14 

III.  THE  EDUCATION  OF  TEMPE  ....     22 

IV.  MARY  ANNAN  WILL  NOT  BE  MADE  LOVE  To       .31 
V.   MARY  ANNAN  CHANGES  HER  MIND      .        .        .42 

VI.   WHAT  HAPPENED  ON  THE  SHELL  ROAD      .        .    54 

VII.   THE  WOMAN  BETWEEN 61 

VIII.   PEYTON  SALUTES  THE  FLAG          ....     71 

IX.    RIVALS  YET  FRIENDS      .        .        .        .        .        .77 

X.   PEYTON  BEGS  FOR  TIME  TO  THINK  IT  OVER       .    84 
XI.   PROBLEMS  TO  BE  FACED        .        .        .        *       .92 

BOOK  II 
THE  STORM  BREAKS 

XII.   THE  INDECISION  OF  PEYTON  .  .  .  .99 

XIII.  A  DINNER  AND  A  DISCUSSION  .  .  .  .  in 

XIV.  THE  GAGE  is  THROWN         ^  »  „  .  .126 
XV.   THE  Kiss  THAT  BETRAYED    .  .  *  .  »  .  134 

XVI.   THE  SIFTING  OF  PEYTON       .       .        ....  141 

xi 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XVII.   "To  THINE  OWN  SELF  BE  TRUE"         .  .  146 

XVIII.   PEYTON  STICKS  TO  THE  FLAG          .        .  .151 

XIX.  DRIVEN  AWAY 161 

XX.  A  WANDERER  AND  A  VAGABOND     .        .  .169 

XXI.  THE  REGIMENT  MARCHES  AWAY     .        .  .178 

BOOK  III 
THE  STORM   RAGES 

XXII.   FACING  THE  ODDS     ».      .       ...  .189 

XXIII.  MARY  ANNAN  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH         .  .  196 

XXIV.  WITH  DARROW'S  BRIGADE        ...  .205 
XXV.   THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE    .        .  .212 

XXVI.   SMASHING  THROUGH  THE  UNION  LINE  .  216 

XXVII.    "THE  ROCK  OF  CHICKAMAUGA"      .  .  222 

XXVIII.     "TOWARD   THE   SOUND   OF  THE   CANNON"  .    228 

XXIX.  THE  LAST  CHARGE    .       .        .        .       .  .  231 

XXX.   THE  RELIEF  THAT  SHAMED      .        .        .  .  238 

XXXI.  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  REGIMENT     .       .  .246 

BOOK  IV 
THE  THUNDERBOLT   STROKE 

XXXII.   A  GREAT  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SEA       .        .  .255 

XXXIII.  PEYTON  POINTS  OUT  THE  WAY       .        .  .262 

XXXIV.  A  PROMOTION  DECLINED          .        .        .  .272 
XXXV.  IN  THE  WARDROOM  OF  THE  HARTFORD  .  277 

xii 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXXVI.   BETTER  IN  THE  MORNING      .        ,        .  .  291 

XXXVII.   THE  FLEET  GETS  UNDER  WAY     .        .  .  303 

XXXVIII.    "AFTER  YOU,  PILOT!"  .    ,   .        .        .  .  311 

XXXIX.   "DAMN  THE  TORPEDOES!    Go  AHEAD!"  .  319 

XL.    IN  THE  CASEMATE  OF  FORT  MORGAN   .  .  326 

XLI.    ON  THE  END  OF  THE  WIRE    ....  332 

XLII.   IN  THE  METACOMET'S  CUTTER      *        .  .341 

XLI  1 1.   THE  LAST  DASH  OF  THE  TENNESSEE     .  .  349 

BOOK  V 
"THE  STRIFE   IS   O'ER" 

XLIV.   WITH  ALL  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR  .        .  .  369 

XLV.   How  BOYD  PEYTON  CAME  HOME  AGAIN  .  380 

XLVI.  SAD  HOURS  AT  ANNANDALE  ....  384 

XLVII.   BOYD  PEYTON  SEES  A  VISION        .        .  .  390 

XLVIII.   MARY  ANNAN  BEGS  FORGIVENESS  .        .  .  394 

XLIX.   THE  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  DEAD     .        .  .  400 

L.   "  WHITHER  THOU  GOEST  I  WILL  Go  "  .  406 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


"  I  give  you  the  South,  gentlemen  "   .        .        .     Frontispiece 


FACING 
PAGE 


"Why,  Boyd  Peyton,"  she  exclaimed,  "     .     .     .     what  a 

surprise ! "   .         .         .         .         .         .         *        .         .28 

"  Save  the  flag,"  he  cried  to  Pleasants       ....  236 
Another  figure  approached  him,  hung  over  him         .        .  392 


BOOK   I 
THE    STORM    BREWS 


CHAPTER  I 


W 


THE    DREAMER 

INTER  in  the  South  and  the  morning 
of  a  day. 

Three  years  had  elapsed  since  Boyd 
Peyton  had  been  in  Alabama  in  the 
month  of  December.  The  young 
breeze,  carrying  with  it  the  fragrance 
of  lingering  fall,  as  it  swept  across  his 
face  filled  him  with  surprise,  for  the 
season  had  been  unusually  pleasant  and 
mild.  The  air  was  almost  balmy  de 
spite  its  touch  of  early  morning  cool 
ness  untempered  by  the  new-risen  sun, 
yet  there  was  a  freshness  in  it  which 
reminded  him  of  springtime  in  New 
England. 

Coming  directly  as  he  had  by  the  railroad  from  the 
bleak  coast  of  Massachusetts,  shivering  in  its  ice 
bound  shores  before  the  fierce  northeasterly  gales,  it 
was  with  quite  a  sense  of  shock  that  he  saw  the  late 
roses  blooming  at  his  feet  as  he  leaned  over  the  railing 
of  the  long  gallery,  or  porch,  surrounding  the  quaint 
old  Southern  house.  There  had  been  no  frost  yet, 
and  the  delicate  white  petals  of  the  lingering  blossoms 
were  still  untouched  and  perfect. 

3 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

The  train  on  which  he  had  been  a  passenger  had 
been  delayed  yesterday  and  he  had  reached  home  after 
nightfall;  too  late  to  see  anything  outside,  at  any 
rate.  Then,  in  the  excitement  of  greeting  his  family 
once  more  after  a  long  period  of  separation,  he  had 
given  no  thought  to  climatic  conditions  or  to  any 
thing  external  to  them.  Stop!  The  statement  is 
hardly  accurate,  for  in  not  one  single  moment,  in  all 
the  joyousness  of  meeting,  in  all  the  exuberant  affec 
tion  given  and  received  in  his  welcome  home,  had  he 
lost  mental  sight  of  Mary  Annan.  This  morning  as 
he  stared  down  at  the  garden  of  roses  in  winter  his 
heart  was  full  of  her.  So  conscious  of  her  had  he 
been,  in  fact,  so  possessed  with  a  sense  of  her  near 
ness  to  him  at  last,  that  he  had  scarcely  slept  during 
the  night. 

In  his  restless  anxiety  to  see  her  he  had  risen  be 
fore  any  of  the  family,  who  slept  later  this  morning 
than  usual,  possibly  because  they  had  remained  up 
longer  the  night  before.  As  soon  as  he  was  dressed 
he  came  out  on  the  gallery,  where  he  stood  gazing 
alternately  upon  the  roses  or  staring  down  through 
the  long  avenue  of  live-oaks  toward  the  St.  Francis 
Road,  which  led  into  the  town  where  she  dwelt.  He 
could  hardly  wait  for  breakfast  and  a  seemly  hour  to 
lay  a  course,  as  he  would  have  phrased  it,  a-horse- 
back  on  the  white  highway,  which  would  bring  him 
once  more  into  her  presence. 

Presently  he  turned  from  the  railing  and  began 
to  pace  the  gallery.  The  house  was  a  huge,  rambling, 
old,  one-story  structure  of  wood  with  a  high  brick 

4 


THE   DREAMER 

basement.  Two  wings  projected  from  the  main  build 
ing,  and  a  wide  porch  above  the  basement,  with  many 
Doric  columns  supporting  its  roof,  followed  the  out 
line  around  the  front  and  sides.  From  one  end  of 
this  gallery  to  the  other  was  quite  a  distance,  yet  the 
young  man,  after  walking  half  a  dozen  paces  in  one 
direction,  instinctively  turned  on  his  heel  and  retraced 
his  steps  for  the  same  distance  back  in  regular  swing 
ing,  quarter-deck  style. 

"How  much  one  forgets,"  he  thought  as  he 
methodically  paced  to  and  fro;  "'tis  but  seven  years 
since  I  left  here  first  and  but  three  years  since  I  visited 
the  old  place,  yet  it  all  seems  so  strange.  Before  I 
went  to  the  Academy  I  knew  every  stick  and  stone, 
every  blade  of  grass  almost.  Well,  I  have  not  for 
gotten  Mary  Annan,  at  any  rate.  To  be  sure,  she 
does  not  belong  to  the  place.  Ah,  but  she  may  some 
day.  Who  knows  though,  what  will  be  the  result  of 
this  election,  what  these  hotheads  will  do?" 

He  laughed  lightly  as  if  in  answer  to  a  comment 
upon  his  thoughts,  and  then  said  aloud — he  had  the 
bad  habit  of  talking  to  himself  sometimes : 

"These  hotheads!  I  speak  like  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land.  Am  I  a  stranger?  Come,  this  will 
never  do !  Not  yet  eight  o'clock,"  he  continued,  pull 
ing  out  his  watch  and  glancing  at  it.  "I  wonder  what 
time  this  family  is  piped  to  breakfast?  Well,  there  is 
nothing  to  do  but  wait,  I  suppose.  I  never  could 
shake  father  out  of  his  orderly  ways,  I  remember,  since 
I  was  a  boy." 

The  young  man  was  a  sailor,  an  officer  in  the  United 

5 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

States  Navy,  a  passed  midshipman  awaiting  his  com 
mission  as  ensign,  just  returned  from  a  three  years' 
cruise  in  European  and  North  African  waters,  subse 
quent  to  his  graduation  after  four  years  of  study  in 
the  United  States  Naval  Academy  at  Annapolis,  Mary 
land.  He  had  been  appointed  to  the  Academy  from 
Alabama  seven  years  before,  and  was  now  just  turned 
twenty-two.  No  one  could  look  more  unlike  the 
typical  bluff  sailor  than  he.  He  was  tall,  slender,  and 
brown-eyed,  and  the  native  darkness  of  his  complexion, 
which  his  seafaring  had  deepened,  with  his  thick 
brown  hair,  worn  rather  long,  as  was  the  fashion  of 
the  time,  and  slightly  curling  at  the  ends,  would  have 
betrayed  him  as  a  Southern  man  anywhere. 

His  appearance  was  gentle,  his  aspect  dreamy.  One 
would  have  pronounced  him  a  poet,  an  artist,  a 
musician — anything  rather  than  a  man  of  action. 
Without  being  gloomy  there  was  a  touch  of  gentle 
melancholy  in  his  appearance.  The  curves  of  his  lips 
indicated  an  innate  sensitiveness  and  reserve  which, 
had  he  not  been  thrown  so  constantly  with  his  fellow 
naval  officers  in  the  society  of  the  world's  best,  would 
have  amounted  to  shyness.  There  was  a  little  timidity 
— which  did  not  spring  from  fear — in  his  address, 
a  deferential  modesty,  especially  when  in  the  pres 
ence  of  women,  or  older  men,  that  was  charming,  if 
somewhat  lacking  in  decision.  Yet  he  carried  him 
self  well.  His  movements  were  easy  and  graceful. 
He  held  his  head  high,  and  had  about  him  that  air 
of  inborn  authority  peculiar  to  the  Southern  slave 
owner  and  gentleman,  which  his  naval  rank  and  posi- 

6 


THE   DREAMER 

tion  had  served  to  emphasize.  Whether  he  looked 
like  a  man  of  action  or  not,  with  his  handsome  face 
and  distinguished  bearing,  he  would  be  a  marked  fig 
ure  anywhere. 

What  he  might  become  in  times  of  stress  and  danger 
was  yet  to  be  determined;  what  he  was  at  that  mo 
ment  was  quite  evident — a  dreamer!  Like  most  of 
the  dreams  of  youth,  the  object  of  his  imaginations 
was  a  woman.  Just  a  year  since,  his  ship,  returning 
from  the  Mediterranean,  had  wintered  at  Boston. 
When  he  had  arrived  there  he  had  rejoiced  to  learn  in 
letters  from  home  that  Mary  Annan  was  attending 
school  in  Cambridge.  Miss  Annan  was  a  young  Ala 
bama  girl  whom  he  had  known,  from  childhood,  with 
whom  he  had  grown  up,  in  fact,  in  the  frank  intimacy 
subsisting  between  children  of  neighboring  and  dis 
tantly  related  families — all  the  gentle  people  of  the 
South  seemed  to  be  more  or  less  related  in  those 
days — and  of  whom,  with  ever-increasing  interest,  he 
had  seen  as  much  as  he  could  in  his  brief  visits  home 
while  he  was  a  midshipman  at  the  Academy. 

He  had  welcomed,  with  an  eagerness  only  possible 
to  a  Southerner  and  a  young  man,  the  opportunity  of 
renewing  his  deepening  acquaintance  with  his  child 
hood  friend  and  fair  compatriot,  and  he  had  striven  to 
make  the  most  of  it.  Every  moment  he  could  take 
from  his  ship  duties,  or  which  she  could  steal  from  her 
not  too  engrossing  studies,  during  the  winter,  the  two 
had  spent  together  in  the  quaint  old  Massachusetts 
town.  There  was  some  far  away  connection  between 
the  Peytons  and  the  Annans,  a  common  colonial  an- 

7 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

cestor  in  whom  they  found  one  of  those  Southern  ties 
that  bind,  although  they  seem  so  tenuous  to  Northern 
minds,  which  gave  him  a  kinsman's  warrant  and  ex 
cuse  for  claiming  her  society — a  fifteenth  cousinship ! 
Not  close  but,  like  Mercutio's  wound,  got  between 
the  two  houses — it  served ! 

The  school  was  described  in  the  catalogue  as  a  "  fin 
ishing  school,"  a  very  popular  sort  of  an  institution  in 
those  days,  and  not  unknown  to  history  even  now. 
So  far  as  Mary  Annan  was  concerned,  its  efforts  were 
fruitless.  She  did  indeed  graduate  from  it  in  June 
with  all  the  honors  of  the  school,  but  she  was  very  far 
from  being  finished,  and  he  would  be  a  very  hardy 
prophet  who  should  predict  what  the  bright,  beauti 
ful,  and  charming  Southern  girl  would  be  in  the  end. 
There  was  latent  force  in  her;  plenty  of  character, 
energy,  self-will,  and  greater  possibilities,  but  only 
the  larger  school  of  life  could  develop  her.  Ease 
might  leave  her  no  opportunity  to  serve.  She 
might  bloom  like  a  flower  under  sunny  skies  until  she 
faded  away  and  came  to  naught;  or  trouble,  sorrow, 
anguish,  care,  might  bring  out  the  woman.  On  the 
Alps,  not  at  Capua,  are  made  men. 

There  were  many  young  girls  facing  pleasant  pros 
pects  with  smiling  faces  in  those  days,  little  dreaming 
of  the  grim  and  awful  realities  brewing  for  them  in 
the  swift  approaching  terrible  years  of  '6i-'65.  Oh, 
blessed  reticence  of  God  that  draws  not  aside  the  cur 
tain  of  the  veiled  future,  that  answers  not  the  prayer 
of  the  poet-king,  "Lord,  let  me  know  my  end  and 
the  number  of  my  days,  that  I  may  be  certified  how 

8 


THE   DREAMER 

long  I  have  to  live!"  JTis  best  for  humanity  some 
times  to  see  through  the  glass  darkly — or  not  at  all. 

A  great  besom  of  war  and  privation  and  anguish  was 
then  preparing  for  this  country.  Aye,  it  had  been 
preparing  since  the  Jesus — "A  Dutch  man-of-warre 
that  sold  us  twenty  Negars"  as  John  Rolfe  wrote — had 
landed  the  first  cargo  of  African  slaves  at  Jamestown 
in  1619 — a  holy  name  for  so  ill-omened  a  ship.  A 
period  of  conflict  was  to  ensue,  in  which  the  finishing 
touches  that  only  suffering  could  add  should  be  put 
upon  the  characters  of  men  and  women  all  over  the 
land.  For  the  day  on  which  Boyd  Peyton  returned 
to  the  home  of  his  ancestors  and  the  focal  point  of  his 
heart's  love  was  December  19,  1860,  six  weeks  after 
the  election  of  Abraham  Lincoln  to  the  Presidency  of 
the  United  States. 

As  a  sailor,  an  officer  in  the  navy,  on  active  service 
in  foreign  waters,  Peyton  had  hardly  realized  the  well- 
nigh  inevitable  consequences  to  the  country  of  that 
overwhelming  declaration  of  popular  opinion  by  the 
North.  He  had  not  dreamed  that  the  feeling  of  a 
neighboring  commonwealth  upon  the  question  of 
slavery  and  the  relation  of  the  new  President  and  his 
party  to  it  had  become  so  intense  and  powerful  that  it 
was  about  to  sweep  one  of  the  most  honored  States 
out  of  the  Union  and  force  upon  other  neighboring 
States  and  the  men  of  the  South  an  alternative,  diffi 
cult  for  many  of  them  to  contemplate  with  any  feel 
ings  save  those  of  anxiety  and  regret. 

In  the  early  spring  of  the  year,  after  the  winter  in 
Boston,  his  ship  had  sailed  on  a  cruise  to  the  North 

9 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

African  coast,  whence  it  had  just  returned  and  been 
put  out  of  commission  the  week  before.  Peyton  had 
escaped  the  great  debate  and  discussion  of  the  spring 
and  summer,  the  breaking  up  of  the  old  Democratic 
party  into  two  or  three  new  ones,  the  forcing  of 
sternly  repressed  and  long-avoided  issues  to  the  front, 
the  strife  and  bitterness,  the  threat  and  the  counter- 
threat.  What  little  Peyton  knew  of  the  situation  had 
filtered  to  him  through  incomplete  sources.  Being  re 
moved  from  personal  contact,  he  had  not  realized  the 
situation  at  all.  The  matter  had  only  been  touched 
upon  last  night  at  his  welcoming,  and  he  was  yet  to 
learn  the  feeling  of  his  father,  his  friends,  his  people, 
his  love,  upon  the  subject. 

One  wise  philosopher  has  said  that  not  more  than 
one  subject  at  a  time  can  engage  the  attention  of  any 
body  of  people.  Whether  that  be  true  of  the  mass  or 
not  need  not  be  discussed,  but  when  a  young  man 
has  his  head,  no,  his  heart  rather — two  things  usually 
diametrically  opposed  in  love  affairs — filled  with  the 
image  of  a  woman,  he  does  not  usually  find  room  for 
the  consideration  of  anything  else,  unless  the  necessity 
for  considering  it  is  somehow  thrust  upon  him. 

On  this  morning  Peyton  had  given  no  thought  to 
the  election  or  its  consequences.  At  that  moment,  if 
he  reflected  upon  it  at  all,  he  cared  neither  what  the 
North  might  do  nor  what  the  South  might  do.  He 
thought  nothing  as  to*  what  might  be  demanded  of 
him,  or  what  his  course  of  action  should  be  in  any 
possible  contingency — unless  it  concerned  Mary 
Annan  and  his  love  for  her.  An  observer  might  have 

10 


THE   DREAMER 

noticed  that  he  walked  his  "porch  watch"  with  his 
head  turned  toward  the  St.  Francis  Road,  which  led 
to  Annandale,  as  a  sailor  might  keep  his  glance  fixed 
to  windward.  In  this  instance  the  weather-vane 
which  determined  the  direction  of  his  gaze  was  his 
heart.  The  heart  of  youth  is  not  unlike  the  change 
ful  weather  indicator,  it  must  be  admitted;  but  his 
was  different — more  like  the  needle,  swinging  true  to 
its  pole,  he  would  have  said. 

Well,  the  world  about  him  might  do  what  it  would. 
It  mattered  nothing  to  him  in  that  bright  morning  of 
hope.  In  an  hour  or  two  at  most  he  would  see  her. 
He  would  be  in  her  presence  again.  He  would  take 
her  hand.  He  might  not,  he  could  not,  kiss  her,  but 
he  would  look  into  her  eyes  once  more.  He  could 
gaze  upon  her  in  her  proper  person,  and  see  her  as  he 
had  imagined  her  in  his  dreams  through  the  long 
night-watches  of  the  cruise. 

In  his  letters  to-  his  sister  he  had  taken  care  that 
news  of  his  home-coming  on  a  two  months'  leave  of 
absence  should  reach  Mary  Annan.  He  had  so  con 
trived  that  the  very  day  and  hour  of  his  arrival  had 
been  made  known  to  her.  Indeed,  had  not  the  train 
been  so  delayed  last  night  he  would  have  gone  to  her 
in  the  evening,  but  it  was  then  too  late,  and  he  had 
been  forced  to  content  himself  with  anticipating  this 
meeting  in  the  morning.  In  spite  of  the  lateness  of 
the  hour,  however,  he  had  directed  the  coachman  to 
drive  past  her  father's  house  on  Government  street 
on  the  way  home.  He  had  peered  out  of  the  carriage 
through  the  darkness  at  the  familiar  old  house.  There 

II 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

were  lights  in  windows  here  and  there,  and  with  a 
lover's  yearning  he  had  wondered  in  which  chamber 
she  might  be  enshrined. 

No  avowal  of  affection  had  yet  passed  between  the 
young  people.  That  certain  timidity,  that  unwilling 
ness  to  take  the  initiative,  which  was  constitutional 
with  him  and  which  he  had  not  yet  overcome,  but 
more  especially  a  certain  chivalry  which  made  him 
loath  to  take  advantage  of  their  frank  comradeship  in 
that  strange  Yankee  land  where  a  premium  might 
have  been  put  upon  him,  he  feared,  merely  because  he 
happened  to  be  a  fellow  Southerner,  an  Alabamian, 
kept  him  from  declaring  in  outspoken  words  his  heart. 
Nevertheless  he  was  thoroughly  sure  that  Mary  Annan 
knew  he  loved  her.  There  is  an  instinctive  capacity 
in  the  most  artless  woman  to  read  with  unerring  ac 
curacy  the  heart  of  a  man  who  loves  her,  especially 
when  his  heart  is  opened  before  her  soul's  vision,  as 
Peyton's  was  to  Mary  Annan.  He  was  sure  that  she 
knew  he  only  waited  a  favorable  opportunity  to  tell  her 
of  his  passion. 

His  assurance  all  ended  there,  however.  With  airy 
mockery,  with  youthful  audacity,  with  deliberate  yet 
delightful  elusiveness,  she  had  met  his  advances.  The 
most  presumptuous  wish  could  not  delude  him  into 
the  belief  that  she  loved  him.  How  could  she,  he  had 
often  thought  in  dejection?  He  felt  that  she  regarded 
him  as  a  visionary,  which,  indeed,  he  was.  She  had 
rallied  him  many  times  upon  his  dreamy  abstraction. 
It  was  part  of  his  character,  too,  that  he  should  esteem 
himself  unworthy  of  her.  It  is  a  part  of  every  true 

12 


THE   DREAMER 

man's  character  to  arrive  at  that  conclusion  when  he 
compares  himself  to  the  woman  he  loves.  There  was 
a  strange  mingling,  therefore,  of  foreboding  and  hope, 
anxiety  and  assurance,  in  his  meditations  on  this 
morning. 

There  was  no  wavering  in  his  desire  and  determina 
tion,  however.  He  was  resolved  to  win  her.  He 
would  count  no  sacrifice  too  great  for  that  end.  As 
the  resolution  took  shape  in  his  fertile  brain,  a  keen 
observer — a  woman  who  loved  him,  for  instance — 
would  have  noticed  a  tightening  of  his  lips,  which 
now,  under  the  influence  of  some  compelling  internal 
force,  seemed  to  lose  something  of  their  sensitiveness. 
His  gracefully  rounded  chin  protruded  slightly,  there 
was  an  unnoticed  bluntness  in  it,  after  all;  the  soft 
ness  in  his  eyes  gave  place  to  a  harder  expression,  the 
brows  straightened  and  drew  together  in  lines.  His 
face  grew  suddenly  strong.  His  whole  appearance 
was  that  of  resolution. 

It  was  astonishing  indeed  that  the  usual  outward 
character  of  the  man  should  have  so  suddenly  given 
place  to  something  so  totally  different.  Something 
had  transformed  him.  Something  inward  and  spiritual 
had  got  the  mastery  for  the  moment  over  the  out 
ward  and  physical. 


CHAPTER  II 


A    HARD    SITUATION    FOR    A    MODEST    MAN 

WILL,  I  will !"  he  murmured,  staring 
down  at  the  road  through  the  live- 
oaks. 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  step  on  the 
porch  behind  him,  and  a  deep  voice 
broke  his  reverie.  It  was  as  if  a  hand 
had  touched  a  bubble.  The  mouth  re 
laxed,  the  brows  widened,  the  hands 
let  go  the  rail,  the  former  expression 
came  back  again.  The  youth,  his  old 
self  once  more,  turned  to  meet  his 
father. 

"Dreaming  again,  Boyd !"  said  the 
elder  reprovingly. 

In  appearance  he  was  nearly  the 
counterpart  of  his  son,  but  with  reso 
lution  added,  decision  acquired,  and  dreams  long  lost 
in  tempering  experience.  His  bushy  hair  was  snow- 
white,  although  not  from  age,  for  he  was  just  turned 
fifty.  His  thick  drooping  mustache  and  tufted  im 
perial  were  also  white.  As  he  looked  at  his  son  he 
presented  a  stern,  weather-beaten,  war-worn  face. 
Colonel  Peyton  had  been  a  soldier.  He  had  fought 
with  distinction  in  the  Mexican  War  fourteen  years* 

14 


A   HARD    SITUATION 

before,  and  it  was  evident  that  his  services  would 
be  valuable  to  whichever  side  he  elected  to  give  his 
sword  in  the  coming  strife,  which  he,  at  least,  real 
ized  was  inevitable.  Old  soldiers  usually  develop  into 
the  fat  and  red,  or  the  thin  and  lean,  kind  of  men. 
Colonel  Peyton  was  of  the  latter  class,  although  his 
temper  was  as  quick  and  fierce  as  that  of  the  most 
choleric  and  gouty  old  veteran.  His  voice  was  full 
and  rich,  and  in  pronunciation  and  accent  betrayed 
his  Southern  characteristics  beyond  question.  Boyd's 
voice  was  different.  It  was  still  Southern,  but  not 
markedly  so.  He  had  lived  so  long  in  the  North  and 
on  the  sea,  and  he  had  tried  so  hard  to  mould  it  in 
stereotyped  form,  that  it  had  lost  most  of  its  dis 
tinguishing  characteristics,  and  except  when  he  was 
excited  it  was  cosmopolitan  and  therefore  monoto 
nous. 

"Dreaming  again,  Boyd!  It's  not  good  for  an 
officer.  I  had  hoped  that  your  Naval  Academy  train 
ing,  your  experience  as  an  officer,  might  get  you  out  of 
that  bad  habit.  But  you  are  at  it  again,  I  see." 

The  older  man  frowned  and  shook  his  head  hope 
lessly  toward  his  son. 

"No,  father,"  said  the  young  man  quickly,  "not 
dreaming  when  you  spoke,  but " 

"But  what,  sir?"     Only  he  pronounced  it  "suh." 

"Resolving." 

"Ha,  that's  better!  And  resolving  upon  what, 
pray?" 

"Resolving  to  take  a  wife,  sir.  If  I  can  get  her,  that 
is,  sir." 

15 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"A  wife!    A  wife!"  in  sudden  suspicion. 

"A  wife,  sir,"  answered  his  son,  firmly. 

"How  old  are  you  now,  sir?"  asked  his  father, 
having  partially  digested  the  unexpected  announce 
ment. 

"Just  twenty-two,  sir." 

"You  are  young  to  speak  of  marriage,  lad." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  am,"  answered  Boyd  promptly — it  was 
astonishing  what  a  stimulus  to  action  the  young  man 
found  in  his  alert  father.  "But  it  is  a  habit  of  our 
family,  sir,  as  I  have  heard.  Mother  was  sixteen,  I 
think,  when  she  married  you,  and  you  were  no  older 
than  I  am  yourself  then,  sir." 

"Well,  er — yes,  of  course,"  said  the  colonel,  rather 
taken  aback  by  this  strikingly  direct,  if  smiling,  charge, 
"I — er — who  is  the  lady?  I  hope,  Boyd,  that  you 
have  not  fallen  in  love  with  some  foreigner  in  Europe, 
or " 

"No,  sir." 

"Nor  with  any  Yankee  girl.  A  man  should  marry 
among  his  own  people,  especially  now.  I " 

"Well,  sir,"  interrupted  Boyd  hesitatingly,  in  a  spirit 
of  fun,  "I  met  her  in  New  England,  at  Boston,  last 
winter,  and  I " 

"Boyd  Peyton,  don't  tell  me  that  you  are  going  to 
marry  outside  of  your  own  class!"  thundered  his 
father — "that  you  are  going  to  ally  yourself  with  one 
of  those  Northern  tradespeople — with  one  of  Lin 
coln's " 

No  one  could  have  exceeded  the  bitter  contempt 
with  which  he  spoke. 

16 


A   HARD    SITUATION 

"Father,"  cried  the  young  man  hastily,  seeing  evi 
dences  of  an  explosion  in  the  reddening  face  and  ex 
cited  manner  of  his  father,  "it  is  Mary  Annan." 

"Why,  God  bless  me!"  returned  the  older  man, 
greatly  relieved,  grasping  his  son  by  the  shoulders  and 
giving  him  a  little  shake.  "Why  didn't  you  say  so? 
Why,  that  girl  is  the  pride  of  my  life,  the  prettiest 
girl  in  Mobile,  the  belle  of  Alabama.  You  young 
dog!  What  do  you  mean  by  trying  to  fool  your 
father  in  this  way  ?  My  heart's  been  set  upon  it.  It's 
the  best  thing  that  could  have  happened.  I  could 
not " 

"Hold  on,  father!     It  hasn't  happened  yet." 

"Ha,  what's  that?" 

"Well,  sir,  you  see  I  haven't  said  anything  to  her 
as  yet,  and  I  don't  know  what  she  will  do." 

"Boyd  Peyton,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
were  a  whole  winter  with  that  girl,  and  you  a  sailor,  sir, 
an  officer,  damme,  and  you  have  not  proposed  to  her 
yet?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I " 

"Well,  by  gad,  sir !"  exploded  the  older  man,  "when 
I  was  a  young  man  if  I  were  in  company  with  a. 
charming  girl  like  that  for  a  week,  and  didn't  propose 
to  her,  I  would  consider  that  I  was  reflecting  on  her 
character,  by  Jove!  I  always  proposed  to  all  the 
girls  I " 

"What's  that,  Willis?"  interrupted  a  sweet-voiced 
matron,  joining  the  group  on  the  porch,  through  the 
open  door  of  the  hall,  "you  always  proposed  to  whom, 
sir?" 

17 


THE   SOUTHERNERS 

"Er  —  my  dear  —  Lucy,  I  —  er  — "  stammered  the 
colonel,  in  much  confusion.  "You  see,  I  meant  to 
say  I  proposed  to  you  the  first  time  I  saw  you  and 
kept  it  up  regularly  every  week  until  you  accepted 
me.  That's  all,  my  dear,"  he  went  on,  with  pardon 
able  mendacity. 

"Oh,  indeed,  sir!"  laughed  the  lady.  "Well,  what 
are  you  rating  Boyd  for  ?" 

"Because  he  hasn't  proposed  to  Mary  Annan." 

"Mary  Annan !"  cried  the  young  man's  mother. 
"Does  he  love  her?" 

"Gad — begging  your  pardon,  my  dear — how  could 
he  help  it?  I  almost  love  her  myself,"  chuckled  the 
colonel. 

"Don't  make  any  reservation  on  my  account, 
colonel,"  retorted  his  wife  composedly,  coming  nearer 
to  him  as  she  spoke,  and  laying  her  hand  affectionately 
on  his  shoulder.  "We  old  women  cannot  compete 
with  young  girls  like  Mary  Annan,  I  know." 

"My  dear,"  said  the  colonel,  taking  her  hand  and 
bowing  low  over  it,  while  he  kissed  the  plump  white 
fingers  with  charming  old-fashioned  deference  and 
grace — a  very  polished  gentleman,  indeed,  was  her 
gallant  husband,  she  thought — "Mary  Annan  can't 
hold  a  candle  to  you,  and  no  other  girl  can,  or  could, 
that  I  ever  saw,  young  or  old.  By  Jove,  Boyd,  you 
should  have  seen  your  mother  when  she  was  Mary's 
age !  The  belle  of  the  Old  Dominion,  sir,  and  the  toast 
of  Richmond,  Washington,  Baltimore,  the  White  Sul 
phur,  every  place!  Gad,  sir,  I  was  out  with  three 

young  bucks  before  I " 

18 


A    HARD    SITUATION 

"Fie,  Colonel,  what  an  example  for  your  son !  But 
tell  me,  Boyd  dear,  do  you  love  her?" 

"Love  Mary  Annan,  mother!"  said  the  young  man, 
much  abashed  at  the  publicity  given  to  his  love-affairs, 
yet  forcing  himself  to  speak  boldly  and  answer  her 
question,  when  he  was  interrupted  a  third  time. 

"Why,  mother !"  said  Miss  Pinkie  Peyton,  his  sister, 
a  young  woman,  just  turned  eighteen,  as  she  joined  the 
group  on  the  porch,  "if  you  had  read  his  letters  to  me 
you  would  think  the  sun  rose  and  set  and  the  earth 
began  and  ended  in  Mary  Annan.  Love  her!" 

"  That's  as  it  should  be,"  said  the  colonel  decisively. 
"I  used  to  feel  that  way  about  your  mother,  children." 

"Used  to  feel  that  way,  Colonel  Peyton?"  queried 
the  matron,  with  an  emphasis,  easily  understood,  on 
the  first  word. 

"I  do  now,  indeed,  and  more  and  more  every  year," 
said  the  colonel  hastily,  anxious  to  repair  his  blunder. 

"Sir,"  said  Boyd,  smiling,  "it  only  remains  to  take 
Willis  into  our  confidence  now  and  hold  a  family 
council  upon  the  situation." 

"I  know  all  about  it,"  nonchalantly  remarked  Wil 
lis,  the  last  member  of  the  family  to  appear  on  the 
scene. 

Willis  Peyton  was  small  of  stature,  being  twin 
brother  to  Pink,  but  an  alert,  bright-appearing  young 
fellow  with  no  whit  of  his  brother's  abstracted  habit 
of  mind,  apparently.  He  had  overheard  the  latter  part 
of  the  conversation. 

"Pink,  here,  can't  keep  anything  from  me,  her  be 
loved  twin  brother,  you  know,"  he  rattled  on,  "and 

19 


THE   SOUTHERNERS 

always  asks  my  advice  in  affairs  of  the  heart,  her  own 
or  another's.  I  think  I  have  been  most  judicious  in 
getting  your  messages  delivered  to  Miss  Mary  with 
out  her  suspecting  it,  and  if  she  ever  marries  you  you'll 
owe  me  a  debt  of  gratitude." 

"Thanks,  Willis,"  answered  Boyd  dryly.  "And  how 
about  the  lady?" 

"Oh,  she'll  owe  me  nothing.  Don't  for  the  world 
tell  her  I  had  any  hand  in  it;  I  don't  wish  to  lose  her 
regard  on  any  account." 

"Well,  my  son,  have  not  you  spoken  to  Mary?"  in 
terrupted  his  mother. 

"No,  mother,  not  yet." 

"You  have  been  most  infernally — I  beg  your  par 
don,  my  love,  but  it's  true — slow  about  it,"  said  the 
colonel  decisively,  "but  you  must  do  it  this  very  day." 

"I  know,  of  course,  that  she  must  know  that  I — 
that — but  I — you  see,  father,"  he  went  on  lamely,  "I 
did  not  like  to  take  advantage  of  her  being  alone  in 
Boston.  I  was  the  only  one  of  her  people  there,  you 
know,  and  I  thought  it  was  proper  to  ask  Judge 
Annan " 

"Ask  nobody,  sir,  but  the  lady  herself,  sir !"  snorted 
the  colonel.  "Bless  me!  Young  men  of  to-day 
haven't  any  spirit  at  all !" 

"Do  you  wish  that  rule  to  be  carried  out  when  some 
body  comes  here  for  Pink?"  asked  Willis  quickly. 

"I  reckon  nobody  is  coming  around  after  me  at  pres 
ent,  or  at  any  time,"  interrupted  Pink  pertly,  with  a 
toss  of  her  head. 

"Well,  if  they  know  a  good  thing  when  they  see  it, 

20 


A    HARD    SITUATION 

they  will,"  responded  Willis.  "Don't  you  worry, 
Pinkie  dear,  I'll  look  out  for  you  and  steer  you 
through  the  troubled  waters  of  your  love-affairs,  if 
you  will  trust  yourself  to  me.  You'll  be  all  right. 
Meanwhile " 

"Meanwhile,"  said  Boyd,  "I  am  going  down  to  see 
Miss  Mary  as  soon  as  breakfast  is  over." 

"The  idea  of  waiting  until  breakfast  is  over  before 
you  go  to  see  your  sweetheart!"  exclaimed  the  pro 
voking  Willis,  with  exaggerated  disgust.  "Breakfast 
before  love !  That's  modern  chivalry !" 

"It  isn't  that,  youngster,"  said  Boyd,  catching  him 
by  his  shoulders  with  a  gesture  strikingly  like  his 
father's;  "you'll  know  when  you're  older  that  it  isn't 
respectable  to  call  on  young  ladies  at  such  an  hour." 

"Oh,  well,  for  that  matter,  being  in  love  is  not  re 
spectable  anyway,"  answered  Willis  contemptuously. 

"Boys,  boys!"  said  their  mother,  half  laughingly, 
wholly  in  earnest,  "a  man  is  never  so  worthy  of  re 
spect  as  when  he  is  in  love — and  remains  in  love. 
That's  why  I  have  such  a  high  esteem  for  your  father 
here." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  said  the  colonel,  swelling 
visibly  at  the  compliment,  "but  here's  Dinah,  and 
breakfast  is  ready.  Come  on,  Lucy.  Love  and  break 
fast  I  always  found  to  harmonize  admirably  in  my 
case.  Both  charming  and  both  necessary.  Come, 
children." 


CHAPTER  III 


THE    EDUCATION    OF   TEMPE 


M 


ISS  TEMPE  ANNAN  was  a  singular 
mixture  of  the  grave  and  the  gay.  Pos 
sibly  it  would  be  better  to  say  that  in 
her  brief  career  she  alternated  impar 
tially  between  these  two  extremes  of 
deportment.  Sometimes  her  exuberant 
spirits,  entirely  unrestrained,  and  unre- 
strainable  apparently,  made  her  the  ter 
ror  of  the  household,  and  of  the  neigh 
boring  households.  At  other  times  the 
solemnity  which  she  assumed  would 
have  befitted  the  bench  from  which 
her  father  administered  justice.  Some 
times  she  shrieked  and  screamed  with 
elfin  mischief  as  she  ran  and  romped 
and  played  through  the  old  halls  at  Annandale,  yet 
when  her  mood  changed  she  was  as  demure  and  still 
as  a  little  blind  mouse. 

This  morning  she  was  feeling  deeply  serious,  not  to 
say  melancholy,  for  reasons  various  but  sufficient.  In 
the  first  place  she  was,  as  she  would  have  phrased  it, 
"dressed  up."  She  was  not  yet  old  enough  to  enjoy 
at  any  and  every  time  that  process  which  she  would 
find  so  delightful  in  later  years.  New  clothes  and 
best  clothes  made  her  miserable,  especially  when  they 

22 


THE  EDUCATION   OF   TEMPE 

were  put  on  without  rhyme  or  reason.  It  was  not 
Sunday.  She  expected  to  be  "dressed  up"  then,  and 
had  become  resigned  to  it.  It  was  not  dinner-time 
either,  when  such  things  sometimes  happened,  nor  did 
she  know  of  any  expected  company,  in  whose  honor 
she  should  appear  becomingly  attired.  An  unac 
countable  dejection  consequent  upon  a  sense  of  being 
unnecessarily  "fixed  up"  overwhelmed  her,  as  it  has 
wiser  and  older  people. 

She  sat  primly  on  a  low  stool,  her  plump  little  white- 
stockinged  legs,  with  crossed  ankle  ties  on  her  feet, 
stretched  rigidly  before  her  in  pointed  objection.  Her 
pink  merino  frock,  trimmed  with  three  elaborate 
flounces  each  edged  with  pink  fringe,  which,  under 
proper  circumstances,  she  loved  to  contemplate  as  a 
thing  of  abstract  beauty,  and  of  which  by  fits  and 
starts  she  was  inordinately  proud,  was  partially  hidden 
by  a  white  bib  apron,  which  she  hated.  Her  gown 
was  cut  with  low  neck  and  short  sleeves,  of  course, 
but  a  little  blue  sack  with  pinked  edges  protected  her 
arms  and  shoulders.  Beneath  the  hem  of  her  skirt 
peeped  out  an  inch  or  two  of  highly  embroidered 
pantalettes,  garments  much  the  fashion  then,  but  which 
she  thoroughly  loathed.  She  was  not  old  enough, 
as  was  said  before,  to  love  the  fashion  irrespective  of 
what  it  might  be.  That  capacity  or  faculty  feminine 
would  probably  come  to  her  in  time,  as  it  does  to 
most  of  the  daughters  of  women  as  well  as  to  some  of 
the  sons  of  men ! 

The  fact  that  she  was  at  that  moment  seated  in  the 
great  best  room  also  oppressed  her.  She  was  rarely 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

permitted  to  enter  the  confines  of  that  mysterious 
quarter,  which  in  accordance  with  the  current  fashion 
— a  custom  still  prevalent  in  the  South — was  usually 
kept  tightly  closed,  and  which  resembled  a  sarcopha 
gus  more  than  anything  else,  save  when  some  rare  and 
festive  occasion  demanded  its  opening.  Tempe  did 
not  yet  know  enough  to  phrase  it  that  way,  but  in  her 
present  state  of  mind  she  could  have  felt  ready 
sympathy  with  any  royal  corpse  to  be  interred  therein. 
This  morning,  however,  while  in  deference  to  cus 
tom,  both  blinds  and  curtains  closed  the  front,  on 
the  side  the  curtains  were  drawn  before  the  long 
French  windows,  which  opened  upon  the  garden,  and 
the  shutters  were  thrown  back  so  that  the  cheerful  sun 
shine  entered  the  room  and  served,  if  not  to  lighten 
it  wholly,  at  least  to  discover  Miss  Tempe's  gloom. 

The  child  might  have  endured  all  these  things,  how 
ever,  had  it  not  been  for  an  open  book  in  the  hand 
of  a  young  lady  who  sat  beside  her.  That  open  book 
meant  to  Miss  Tempe  an  unlearned  lesson — most  of 
Tempe's  lessons  were  unlearned.  So  are  most  of 
everyone  else's,  by  the  way.  The  crisis  in  which  she 
found  herself  was  an  educational  one;  in  short,  she 
was  there  to  have  her  lessons  heard,  a  thing  which 
Miss  Tempe,  in  common  with  most  little  maidens  of 
six,  and  older,  detested. 

"Now,  Tempe  dear,"  began  her  companion  gently, 
when  the  two  had  settled  themselves,  one  comfortably 
and  the  other  without  any  modification  of  her  stub 
born  predetermined  discomfort,  before  the  wood  fire 
crackling  and  burning  cheerfully  in  the  open  grate, 

24 


THE    EDUCATION    OF    TEMPE 

"now  Tempe,  you  really  must  say  your  lessons.  Yes 
terday  I  let  you  off,  the  day  before  you  were  ill,  but  you 
must  do  them  to-day." 

"Yes,  sister  Mary,"  said  Tempe  meekly,  while  her 
black  eyes  rolled  around  the  apartment  vainly  seek 
ing  for  help  from  the  pictured  worthies,  masculine  and 
feminine,  dead  and  gone  Annans,  in  oval  gilt  frames 
that  adorned  the  walls,  and  Tempe  had  the  blackest 
pupils  set  in  the  whitest  eyes  you  ever  saw.  When 
she  opened  them  widely  and  fixed  them  upon  you  the 
effect  was  startling.  Tempe  spoke  with  a  lisp,  too 
slight  to  indicate,  but  just  enough  to  be  attractive. 
Her  pronunciation  was  strikingly  like  her  sister's. 
They  both  had  soft  Southern  voices,  a  slight  blur  upon 
the  vowels,  ah's  for  r's,  all  too  delicate  and  dainty  to 
yield  to  any  attempt  at  phonetic  presentation  on  the 
printed  page,  without  distortion,  complete  misrepre 
sentation,  and  entire  loss  of  the  charm  of  it.  The 
woman's  voice  had  that  dimness  of  outline  we  see  in  a 
modern  photograph  which  is  sufficiently  out  of  focus 
to  have  lost  its  hardness  and  is  become  indefinitely 
charming.  There  are  times  when  the  sharp  and  pre 
cise  are  abominable. 

"Yes,  sister  Mary,"  the  little  one  said  submissively 
for  the  second  time. 

"Now,  where'll  we  begin,  dear?" 

"I  reckon  we'd  better  begin  at  the  beginning." 

"Very  well,  then.  We  will  have  our  spelling  lesson 
first.  Spell  'ab.'  " 

"A-b,  ab,"  answered  Tempe  promptly. 

It  was  the  beginning  and  foundation  of  her  educa- 

25 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

tional  efforts  and  the  one  fact  of  which  she  was  ab 
solutely  confident.  Good  beginnings,  however,  do  not 
always  produce  good  endings.  After  "a-c,  ac,"  "a-d, 
ad,"  and  the  next  two  or  three  similar  illuminating 
efforts  Tempe  was  stumped.  She  rolled  her  eyes 
wider,  wiggled  her  toes  nervously,  and  almost  turned 
herself  inside  out  before  she  stopped  in  a  mixture 
compounded  of  equal  parts  of  hopeless  mental  con 
fusion  and  physical  entanglement.  With  gentle  pa 
tience  her  sister  set  about  the  oft-repeated  task  of 
unraveling  her  in  both  cases.  She  carefully  untwisted 
her  fascinating,  shapely,  plump  little  legs,  and  with 
convincing  iteration  and  unvarying  patience  went  over 
the  disputed  words  again  and  again,  until  a  semblance 
of  appreciation  seemed  to  be  established  in  Tempe's 
mind — or  was  it  ear? 

Tempers  strong  point,  however,  was  not  so  much 
spelling  as  reading,  and  after  half  an  hour's  arduous 
drill  the  well-worn  spelling  book  gave  place  to  a  small 
first  reader.  At  her  sister's  instigation  Tempe  arose 
and  stood  by  her  side,  and  both  heads  bent  low  over 
the  volume,  while,  with  agonies  unspeakable  and  con 
tortions  even  more  violent  than  before,  the  small  child 
endeavored  to  extract  from  the  printed  page  the  in 
formation  that  "The  cat  had  the  rat."  It  was  a  simple 
sentence  though  expressive  of  a  profound,  and  to 
the  rat,  a  painful,  zoological  fact,  but  Tempe  always 
required  a  great  deal  of  prompting,  and  her  mental 
processes — where  books  were  concerned,  otherwise 
not — craved  much  stimulation.  The  first  word  ap 
parently  was  a  blank. 

26 


THE    EDUCATION    OF   TEMPE 

"Now,  honey,"  said  her  sister  persuasively,  "look 
at  it,  look  at  it  hard  !  What  is  that  first  letter?" 

"H,"  answered  the  child  promptly,  making  a 
desperate  guess. 

"No,  it's  not  'h.'  It  looks  a  little  like  a  part  of  an 
'h,'  but  it  isn't.  What  do  we  have  for  supper?" 

"Cake,"  said  Tempe  triumphantly.  "But  it  isn't 
cake,  sister  Mary,  is  it?" 

"Noz  it  isn't  cake,  Tempe,  and  you  know  it  isn't," 
said  sister  Mary  severely.  "It's  V  'lea,  you  know." 

"I  don't  have  tea  for  supper.  You  said  I  was  too 
little  to  have  tea  for  supper.  I  don't  know  how  I 
could  'member  that  it  was  tea." 

"Well,  it  is  V  Now  remember  that.  Now,  what 
is  the  next  letter?" 

"H,"  said  Tempe,  with  clinging  affection  for  her 
first  guess,  which  proved  in  this  instance,  to  her  great 
surprise,  to  be  correct. 

"Yes;  and  the  next?" 

"E,"  triumphantly,  being  with  "round  O"  and 
"chooked  S"  the  three  letters  she  always  knew  at 
sight. 

"Now  what  does  that  spell— 't-h-e'  ?" 

"These,"  said  Tempe,  making  another  bold  and 
reckless  guess. 

"No,  it  spells  'the/  " 

"  The,'  I'll  'member,  'the.'  " 

"Now,  the  next  word.     You  surely  know  what  that 


is." 


Tempe  carefully  screwed  her  head  one  side  and 
bravely  contemplated  the  word.     Assisted  by  a  large 

27 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

and  impossible  picture  at  the  top  of  the  page,  she 
finally  came  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  "  Cat." 
"Had,"  however,  was  Greek  to  her.  Then  came  a 
repetition  of  the  first  word.  Again  Tempe  was 
stumped.  She  gazed  from  book  to  sister  in  voice 
less  misery. 

"Now,  Tempe,"  urged  her  sister,  almost  ready  to 
cry  herself  over  her  little  pupil's  obduracy,  "you  had 
that  word  a  little  while  ago.  Don't  you  remember? 
What  do  we  have  for  supper?" 

"You  said  it  wasn't  cake,"  remarked  Tempe 
dubiously. 

"I  did.     It  was  something  to  drink,  you  know." 

"Milk?"  queried  the  child  anxiously. 

"Tea,  't!'    Don't  you  remember?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sister  Mary,  %'  and  that's  '  the/  An'  I 
know  the  next  word.  'Rat/  ain't  it?" 

"It  is,  but  don't  say  'ain't.'     What  should  you  say?" 

"Peggy  says  'ain't.'  " 

"Yes,  but  Peggy  is  only  a  little  black  girl.  You 
must  say  'isn't/  Now  that  you  have  said  it,  say  the 
whole  thing  over  again." 

"The  cat,"  began  Tempe  confidently,  and  then  sud 
denly  stopped  stock-still.  She  stood  for  a  moment 
staring  past  her  sister's  head  toward  the  door  en 
tering  into  the  hall. 

"Yes,  go  on.  What  are  you  waiting  for?  What 
comes  next?  'The  cat '  " 

But  Tempe  remained  obstinately  silent.  The  girl 
glanced  up  from  the  book  to  ascertain  the  cause  of 
the  sudden  stillness,  saw  the  petrified  stare  upon  her 

28 


THE   EDUCATION   OF   TEMPE 

little  sister's  face,  turned  her  head  in  the  direction  of 
her  gaze,  dropped  the  book,  and  sprang  to  her  feet 
with  an  ejaculation  of  delighted  surprise. 

"Why,  Boyd  Peyton!"  she  exclaimed,  utterly  for 
getful  of  her  little  sister.  "How  glad  I  am  to 
see  you!  Welcome  to  Annandale!  What  a  sur 
prise!" 

"Didn't  you  know  I  was  coming,  Miss  Mary?  I 
thought  that  Pink  and  Willis " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  knew  it,  of  course,  but  your  coming 
upon  us  so  suddenly,  you  know,  startled  me." 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said  contritely,  "I  would  not  let 
the  boy  announce  me.  I  wanted  to  surprise  you." 

"It's  all  right,  but  come  right  in  and  sit  down. 
When  did  you  get  into  town?  How  long  are  you 
going  to  stay?  Why  haven't  you  been  to  see  me 
before?" 

She  poured  out  her  questions  upon  him  in  a  per 
fect  torrent. 

"I  only  got  here  last  night,  quite  too  late  to  visit 
you  then,  so  I  rode  down  the  first  thing  this  morning. 
I  wanted  to  come  the  minute  I  got  into  town.  The 
fact  is,  I  believe  I  thought  of  seeing  you  more  than 
I  did  father  or  mother  or  anybody  else." 

"You  believe  you  did!"  with  a  toss  of  the  head 
and  a  suspicious  emphasis  on  the  second  word. 

"I  am  sure  of  it,"  confidently. 

"Please,  ma'am,  sister  Mary,"  interrupted  Tempe, 
"may  I  go  now?" 

"Yes,  dear,  run  and  play." 

"But  my  lessons  aren't  finished,"  persisted  the  child, 

29 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

who  suddenly  developed  an  unexpected  and  very  un 
usual  thirst  for  knowledge. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right.  I'll  hear  them  after  a  while. 
Say  good-morning  to  Mr.  Peyton,  and  run  along." 

"How  do  you  do,  Miss  Tempe?"  said  Peyton 
gravely,  as  the  child  walked  over  to  him  and  extended 
her  small  brown  hand. 

"I  am  very  well,  sir,  an'  I  hope  you  are  the  same." 

"Thank  you,  I  am,"  laughed  the  young  man.  "My, 
how  you  have  grown!  You  were  such  a  little  girl 
when  I  saw  you  last.  Now  you  are  quite  a  young  lady, 
and  so  dressed  up,  too." 

"Yes,  Mr.  Peyton,  sister  Mary  dressed  me  up  this 
morning.  These  are  my  best  clothes.  I  don't  see 
why  she  did  it.  It  ain't — it  isn't,  I  mean — Sunday, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  a  party.  An'  I  had  my  lessons 
in  the  best  parlor,  too.  Did  you  dress  me  up,  sister 
Mary,  because  Mr.  Peyton  was  coming?" 

Sister  Mary  blushed  violently,  and,  to  cover  her 
confusion,  Peyton  slipped  a  box  of  candy  he  had 
brought  with  him  into  the  hand  of  the  child  and  bade 
her  run  and  eat  it.  In  fact,  he  accompanied  her  to 
the  door  and  stood  looking  after  her  for  a  few  mo 
ments  with  thoughtful  consideration  before  he  re 
turned  to  his  seat. 


"Why,  Boyd  Peyton,"  she  exclaimed,  "...    what  a  surprise!" 


CHAPTER  IV 


MARY  ANNAN  WILL  NOT   BE  MADE   LOVE  TO 

ARY  ANNAN  had  recovered  her  com 
posure,  in  some  measure,  at  least,  by 
a  violent  effort,  but  when  Peyton  sat 
down  again  an  awful  silence  ensued. 

"You  are  the  same  old  Boyd  Peyton 
as  ever,  I  see,"  she  said  at  last  to  him. 
"You  have  not  seen  me  for  six  months, 
and  haven't  said  half  a  dozen  words  to 
me,  and  now  you  are  actually  dream 
ing  in  my  presence." 

"I  have  been  dreaming  about  your 
presence  ever  since  I  saw  you  last, 
Miss  Mary,  and  it  is  natural  that  I 
should  dream  on  while  I'm  here.  Be 
sides,  I  was  wondering " 

He  stopped  again. 

"Wondering  about  what?"  she  asked  somewhat  im 
patiently. 

Not  a  bit  of  a  dreamer,  she;  at  least  not  yet. 

"Wondering  if  the  child  spoke  the  truth." 

"Children  usually  do,  duplicity  comes  later." 

"At  what  age?" 

"I've  not  lived  long  enough  to  find  out,  sir,"  wittily 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

answered  the  girl,  smiling  at  his  confusion.  "But  you 
were  wondering  about  Tempe?" 

"Yes,  wondering  whether  you  did  dress  her  up  for 
— whether  you  were — whether  you  really " 

He  stopped  lamely  enough  and  looked  gravely  away 
from  her.  She  laughed  merrily. 

"Whether  I  expected  you?  Of  course  I  did.  I 
knew  you  were  coming.  I  expected  you  last  night, 
and  when  you  didn't  come  I  was  awfully  disappointed, 
but  I  knew  you  would  be  here  this  morning.  I  have 
been  anticipating  this  moment  for  a  long  time.  Hence 
this  open  parlor,  this  blazing  fire,  Tempe's  best  dress, 
and  all  the  rest.  Things  have  been  made  ready  for 
your  reception,"  she  went  on  audaciously,  bowing  low 
before  him  with  mocking  reverence.  "Now  your  first 
question  is  answered,  tell  me  how  did  you  leave  Bos 
ton?" 

"Cold,  gloomy,  frozen.  You  never  saw  anything 
like  it." 

"Did  you  see  Miss  Metcalfe  before  you  left?" 

"Yes,  I  called  at  the  school  and  the  old  lady  sent 
you  her  best  love." 

"She  was  a  sweet  old  soul,"  said  the  girl. 

"Yes,"  he  assented  heartily.  "You  remember  she 
let  us  go  out  together  pretty  much  whenever  we 
wanted  to.  It  was  so  nice  of  her." 

"Oh,  well,  she  looked  upon  you  as  my  brother  al 
most,  of  course." 

"But  you  didn't  look  upon  me  that  way,  did  you?" 
he  asked  anxiously. 

"Why,  no,  not  exactly,"  she  answered,  "you  see  I 

32 


MARY    WILL    NOT    BE    MADE    LOVE    TO 

have  only  one  brother,  and  Beverly  is  only  thirteen. 
He  is  away  at  school,  by  the  way.  Now  you  are  too 
old  for  me  to  regard  you  as  that  kind  of  a  brother." 

"Oh,  Miss  Mary,  I  don't  want  you  to  regard  me  as 
any  kind  of  a  brother  at  all.  I  have  come  a  long  way 
to  tell  you." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Boyd,  don't!"  cried  the  girl,  rising  to 
her  feet  again.  "We  had  such  a  good  time  together 
in  Boston  that  I  counted  on  having  the  same  good 
time  while  you  were  at  home  on  this  leave  of  absence, 
and  now  you  are  going  to  spoil  it  all,  I  know  you 
are." 

"Now,  please  don't  say  that,"  he  interrupted  plead 
ingly,  "I  didn't  think  you  would  be  so  annoyed  to 
learn  that  I " 

"But  I  don't  care  for  you  in  that  way,"  she  con 
tinued  impulsively,  then  suddenly  stopped  in  great 
confusion,  realizing  that  she  had  not  been  asked  as  yet 
to  care  for  anybody  in  any  way. 

"Well,  Miss  Mary,"  said  Peyton,  greatly  abashed, 
"I  will  respect  your  wishes,  of  course.  I  shall  always 
do  so.  Everything  you  may  say  is  law  to  me."  Oh, 
the  rash  promises  of  youth  and  love !  "Whatever  you 
wish  me  to  do  I  will  do.  That  is,  I  won't  say  anything 
now,  but  I  have  only  a  short  leave  of  absence,  you 
know,  and  before  I  go  back  you  must  at  least  let  me 
tell  you  that  I — I —  well,  I  will  tell  you  it  when  I  tell 
you,  you  see." 

His  words  were  entirely  confused  and  lame,  but  the 
girl  easily  comprehended. 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't,"  she  said  truthfully,  "I  do  not 

33 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

believe  it  will  be  any  use,  but  if  you  must,  you  must, 
and  we'll  put  aside  the  disagreeable  subject/'  with  cut 
ting  but  unconscious  frankness,  "until  we — we  have 
to.  Do  you  know  how  old  I  am?" 

"You  will  be  eighteen  on  the  third  of  January,"  he 
answered  promptly. 

"Dear  me!"  she  exclaimed,  "how  did  you  get  it 
down  so  pat?" 

"Why — I — you  see — I — oh,  dear,  it  is  so  hard  not 
to  say  it !  I  like  you  so  much,  Miss  Mary — I  may  say 
that,  surely?  "  deprecatingly. 

"Yes,  you  may  go  that  far,  I  think,"  with  injudicious 
concession. 

"Well,  then,  I  like  you  so  much  that  I  have  tried  to 
learn  all  about  you,"  triumphantly  pressing  his  ad 
vantage. 

"From  whom  have  you  learned  about  me?" 

"Why,  from  everybody  who  would  talk  to  me  about 
you,  or  would  write  about  you,"  he  went  on  in  some 
embarrassment. 

"So  you  have  been  writing  about  me,  have  you?" 
severely. 

"Miss  Mary,  I  have  been  writing  about  you,  think 
ing  about  you,  dreaming  about  you " 

"Stop,  Mr.  Boyd !"  she  cried,  lifting  a  warning  hand, 
"stop  right  there !" 

"All  right,"  he  replied,  recovering  himself  with  diffi 
culty. 

"Now  tell  me  about  your  leave  of  absence." 

"I  have  two  months." 

"Isn't  that  fine !" 

34 


MARY    WILL    NOT    BE    MADE    LOVE    TO 

"I  think  it  is  a  very  short  time  to  spend — with  you. 
It  doesn't  seem  fine  to  me  at  all." 

"Have  you  passed  your  examinations?" 

"Yes.  Went  through  them  with  flying  colors. 
Expect  to  be  an  ensign  before  my  leave  is  up." 

"Good !     I  congratulate  you !" 

"Yes,  Miss  Mary,  and  you  know  an  ensign's  pay  is 
very  much  more  than  that  of  a  passed  midshipman. 
Most  fellows  marry  when  they  get  to  be  ensigns,"  he 
continued,  with  insinuating  meekness,  looking  care 
fully  away  from  her  while  he  spoke. 

"Very  foolish  indeed  of  them,  I  think,"  she  replied 
coldly,  resolutely  oblivious  to  the  indirect  suggestion. 
"The  idea !  Mere  boys  as  they  are !" 

"You  know  I  am  past  twenty-two,"  meekly. 

"No,  I  didn't  know  it.  You  don't  look  it,  and  just 
now  you  don't  act  it,  either.  You  see,  I  haven't  made 
your  life  the  subject  of  such  exhaustive  study  as  you 
have  given  mine." 

"No,  I  suppose  not,"  he  answered  dejectedly.  "My 
career  has  been  so  unimportant  heretofore  that  it 
would  not  be  worth  while  to  look  it  up." 

"And  has  mine  been  of  such  importance,  Mr.  Pey 
ton?" 

"Of  the  greatest  to  me,  and  it  will  be  as  long  as  I 
live,"  he  answered  promptly,  ready  to  take  instant  ad 
vantage  of  the  opening. 

"Boyd  Peyton,"  said  the  girl  sternly,  determined  to 
put  an  end  to  this  if  she  could,  "if  you  were  ordered  to 
do  a  thing  by  your  superior  officer  would  you  obey 
him,  or  would  you  not?" 

35 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Obey  him,  of  course,"  answered  Peyton. 

"Would  you  try  to  evade  his  commands,  or  would 
you  obey  absolutely?" 

"Absolutely,  certainly." 

"Well,  then  I  ordered  you — and  you  promised  to 
obey  me — you  promised  not  to  say  anything  about — 
about  that  subject,  you  know,  for  the  present,  that  is, 
and  you  have  done  nothing  but  make  love  to  me  since 
you  came  in  this  room.  I  won't  have  it!  It  must 
stop!" 

"Don't  you  like  me  to  do  it?"  he  questioned,  with 
such  simplicity  and  directness  that  it  almost  took  her 
breath  away. 

"Like  you  to  do  it?"  she  returned,  in  confusion  and 
perturbation.  "Well,  I — but  you  wish  me — to — re 
spond  and  I- " 

"Honestly,  now,  Miss  Mary,  you  said  you  had  not 
reached  the  age  of  duplicity.  Honestly,  now !  Does 
it  displease  you  very  much  to  have  me — I  won't  say  it, 
of  course,  but  you  know  what  I  mean." 

"Well,  no — I  don't  exactly  dislike  it — but,  dear  me, 
how  tiresome  this  is!  Let's  talk  of  something  else! 
You  have  just  come  from  the  North.  How  do  they 
feel  about  Lincoln's  election?" 

"Why,  jubilant,  of  course,  naturally  enough,  I  think. 
You  see,  I  didn't  remain  in  Boston  a  minute  longer 
than  necessary.  I  rushed  down  here  to " 

"There  you  go  again,"  severely,  with  upraised  fin 
ger  of  warning. 

"To  see  father  and  mother,"  he  continued  hastily, 
"as  quick  as  I  could.  So  I  really  know  very  little 

36 


MARY    WILL    NOT    BE    MADE    LOVE    TO 

about   it.      I    did    hear   some   talk,   though,    on    the 
train." 

"What  do  they  say?     Are  they  going  to  fight?" 

"Fight!"  he  ejaculated  in  astonishment.  "Fight 
whom?" 

"Fight  us,  fight  the  South." 

"Of  course  not !  Why  should  they  fight?"  with  still 
greater  surprise. 

"Boyd  Peyton,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
don't  know  that  Lincoln  is  going  to  send  his  hirelings 
down  here  to  take  away  our  slaves,  and  make  citizens 
of  them,  and  voters,  and  social  equals,  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing?" 

"No,"  said  the  young  man  promptly,  "I  do  not  be 
lieve  he  intends  to  do  anything  of  the  kind,  and  he 
could  not  do  it  if  he  would.  I  have  read  his  platform, 
and  his  letter  of  acceptance,  and  some  of  his  speeches, 
and  they  do  not  say  one  word  about  doing  such 
things." 

"Boyd  Peyton,"  said  the  girl  again,  leaning  forward 
and  looking  at  him  intently,  "do  you  mean  that  you 
are  a  Republican?" 

Words  could  hardly  express  the  scorn  and  contempt 
with  which  she  flung  that  last  word  at  him,  and  there 
was  a  note  of  anxiety  as  well  in  her  question. 

"Certainly  not,"  answered  Peyton  promptly;  "I  am 
a  Democrat." 

"Yes,  but  what  kind  of  a  Democrat — the  Southern 
kind  or  the  other?" 

"Why,"  said  the  young  man,  "since  I  am  a  South 
erner  I  suppose  I  belong  to  the  Southern  kind." 

37 


THE  SOUTHERNERS 

I*  yon  had  been  here  on 
,""  persisted  the  girt,  "wouM  yon  have  voted  far 

m.    ¥fra  •   I  l-i  ?•  m?  ll  in   *  ?** 

or  xsrecnnrM^ger 

answered  Peyton,  grattfy  surprised  aft  her 
vehemence,  **uot  being:  here  at  that  tine,  and  being  in 

the  navy  and  cruising  at  sea  three  thousand  miles  from 
die  United  States,  instead,  I  Italy  dad  not  give  the 

.  ,-fr  j*a   ,  rt      _„  *\       i<'V-.-.j^  juJJu^  T    *lMMkJk»- — "      ^  _  ,.    -     ~ 

s2D?eci  roocn  tnongpK.    i.  IMHK  on  genem  pnncnwes 

I^lk^k«JJ    km«^ •"-  ^*     tnm^    "**• *-  -        *  - •   *n    «^  ^    -^t^^^.    M 
>    ,  .    -        ..    ;        ,  .  ;\.      ,  .     ^  '..:<.;>>     .  .: .  :     •'•  ^  ~  .    : 

v        -       B^^    sfm^^^*»  d^dh^^^l    A^^^^h^^*^     ^>*.  M»    ~X^.^^     f  fc    n  1  ^*^***w»     "W 

^,  «S  ne  Saw  «  CKMMl  SfCCep  QWU  nCT  BWC— -  Ottt  X 

wg&OECi  that  ocnichasKxii,  nuB^way.    Iwonld 
be  convinced  if  anybody  m^aoW  show  me  any 


gbd  to  tear  *u  Mr.  Bc^dL, 


:.-.:  .  ;.:v  :.  s::r;.:  cr. : 

%i  eve-  tint  P 
at  least,  n  yonr  lather  voted 
there  most  be  same&xng  to  be  said  for  hoC"  Fe^ton 
wged  defeffendal^ 

•iff  ->.•>  ••-  *    ^-  ^*  _  T  .TTu,    -  -  **-  "-  *  *"  -"*-  -       _!Lil  «»-_^- 

rmstaHRKsn,   tnegKiwent 


old  not  nroe  inm;  leastways,  I 
"*^t  is  tdhe  same  thir^,*'  s 


"Toman* 
only  a  ^e«y 


MARY    WILL   NOT    BE   MADE   LOVE  TO 

as  a  rule  are  rather  blind  to  the  qualities  of  their  chil 
dren.  But  why  do  you  think  there  is  going  to  be  any 
fighting?" 

"I  did  not  say  I  thought  there  was  going  to  be  any 
fighting,  Mr,  Boyd,"  answered  the  girl  "In  fact,  I 
don't  think  there  will  be,  for  the  reason  that  1  do  not 
believe  the  Yankees  will  fight  At  least,  I  think  they 
will  be  afraid  to  get  into  a  fight  with  the  South,  You 
know  they  say  that  one  Southerner  can  whip  five 
Yankees,  anyway/' 

"Yes,"  said  Boyd  grimly,  "I  have  heard  that  before, 
but  I  do  not  believe  it/' 

"Boyd  Peyton,  are  you  turning  traitor  to  the 
Southr 

"Certainly  not  I  am  simply  stating  facts,  I  know 
it  is  not  true  that  one  Southern  man  can  whip  five 
Yankees;  at  least,  not  in  every  case,  because  I  tried  it" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  I  didn't  try  five  Yankees  at  once;  I  tried  one 
at  a  time,  when  I  first  went  to  the  Academy,  and  out 
of  five  tries  I  think  I  got  four  lickings,  and  they  were 
good  ones,  too!" 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  girl  scornfully,  "do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  you  fought  with  your  fists?  I  did 
not  think  that  gentlemen " 

"Hold  on,  Miss  Mary!"  cried  Boyd,  "you  wouldn't 
have  a  school  full  of  boys  go  at  each  other  with  swords 
or  pistols?" 

"  That's  the  Southern  way,"  proudly. 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  "but  it  isn't  the  best  way.  We 
fought  it  out  with  our  fists  in  good,  honest  style,  and 

39 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

I  have  not  four  warmer  friends  in  the  world  than  those 
fellows.  I  respect  them  because  they  conquered  me, 
and  they  respect  me,  I  think,  because  I  knew  how  to 
take  a  beating." 

"Yes,  you  may  have  been  beaten  by  them,"  cried  the 
girl  passionately,  resentful  of  his  indifference  to  a  de 
feat  of  the  South  in  his  person,  and  comprehending  his 
slender  frame  in  a  cruel  glance,  as  she  spoke,  "but  if 
some  other  man,  Mr.  Bob  Darrow,  for  instance,  had 
been  in  your  place  he  might  have  whipped  the  whole 
five — if  he  had  condescended  to  fight  with  fists." 

Peyton's  face  flushed  a  deep  dull  crimson.  The 
curves  of  his  mouth  tightened  again.  There  came 
once  more  that  same  squareness  of  jaw,  that  contrac 
tion  of  the  brow.  He  looked  positively  forbidding 
for  the  moment,  as  he  turned  toward  her.  She  shrank 
back  before  his  dark  visage  in  sudden  alarm,  but  he 
recovered  himself  by  a  violent  effort. 

"Wasn't  that  just  a  little  unkind  of  you,  Miss 
Mary?"  he  asked  at  last,  unable  to  control  a  quiver  of 
pain  in  his  voice,  for  which  he  hated  himself.  "Dar 
row  is  afraid  of  nothing,  I  know,  and  he  has  the 
physical  strength  at  his  command  to  carry  him  through 
almost  anything.  You  are  right.  I  believe  he  would 
have  whipped  them  all.  I  am  not  so  strong  as  he, 
and  frankly  I  do  not  like  fighting  simply  for  the  sake 
of  fighting.  But  I  want  you  to  believe  I  did  the  best 
I  could,  and  I  wasn't  whipped  until  I  had  been  so 
pounded  up  that  I  could  not  strike  another  blow,  and 
I  was  just  as  quick  to  defend  the  South  as  he  would 
have  been." 

40 


MARY    WILL    NOT    BE    MADE    LOVE    TO 

"Forgive  me,  Boyd,"  said  Mary  in  deep  contrition, 
made  the  more  severe  by  the  manly,  gentle,  kindly 
way  he  had  taken  her  thoughtless  but  wounding  words. 
"It  was  most  unkind  of  me.  I  am  ashamed  of  my 
self.  I  did  not  mean  it  at  all.  I  know  you  are  as 
brave  as  a  lion." 

"I  am  not,"  answered  Peyton  truthfully,  "I  am  not 
brave  at  all.  I  loathe  to  fight.  War,  battle,  blood 
shed,  are  horrible  to  me.  I  have  a  terrible  shrinking 
in  my  soul  at  the  thought  of  them." 

"Yet  you  have  done  it,  you  would  do  it  again?" 
asked  the  girl  wonderingly. 

"Oh,  yes,  of  course.  A  man  has  to;  no  gentleman 
can  be  insulted,  you  know.  One  must  do  his  duty. 
As  you  say,  Darrow  is  a  different  sort  of  a  man.  He 
would  fight  because  he  likes  it.  I  do  not  believe  he 
knows  what  fear  is.  He  is  no  dreamer,  but  a  man  of 
action." 


CHAPTER  V 


MARY    ANNAN    CHANGES   HER    MIND 

EYTON  turned  away  from  her  and 
walked  toward  the  window.  She 
looked  at  him  half  in  pity,  half  in  ad 
miration.  She  did  love  the  type  repre 
sented  by  Darrow;  she  was  too  young 
and  too  inexperienced  to  have  learned 
that  in  every  age  it  is  the  dreamer  who 
creates  the  ideal  and  compasses  it  at 
every  sacrifice,  who  masters  the  world ; 
yet  for  the  present  her  thoughts  were 
Peyton's  and  she  hesitated  as  to  what 
to  do.  She  had  been  hard  to  him,  and 
she  was  sorry.  She  liked  him.  That 
liking  might  develop  into  something 
more  as  her  character  formed  —  al 
though  she  did  not  realize  that  at  the 
time — or  it  might  not,  but  anyway  she 
really  believed  she  liked  him  better  than  anyone  else, 
unless  it  were  Bob  Darrow.  If  he  lacked  the  other's 
splendid  physical  perfections,  things  usually  accom 
panying  SUch  splendid  courage  as  he  exhibited,  still 
Peyton  was  a  handsome  fellow,  especially  in  his  uni 
form.  She  knew  that  she  had  grievously  wounded 
him.  However,  as  she  had  little  time  for  deliberation, 

42 


MARY  ANNAN  CHANGES  HER  MIND 

she  did  the  best  thing  that  could  have  been  done  un 
der  the  circumstances;  with  womanly  intuition  she  did 
nothing.  Only  the  wisest  know  when  to  do  nothing, 
and  oftentimes  a  woman's  instinct  transcends  the  wis 
dom  of  the  ages.  Sheba's  queen  was  not  unfit  to  stand 
beside  Solomon.  With  gracious  tact,  as  if  the  subject 
were  dismissed  and  forgotten,  she  stepped  over  to  the 
window  by  his  side. 

"Open  it,"  she  said  quietly,  catching  up  a  light 
shawl  from  the  chair,  "and  let  us  go  into  the  garden 
together,  into  the  sunlight." 

"It  is  always  sunlight  where  you  are,  Miss  Mary," 
he  remarked,  with  swift  gratitude,  as  he  obeyed  her 
commands,  and  together  they  went  out  on  the 
porch. 

"How  sweet  the  old  garden  looks !"  he  continued,  as 
they  descended  the  gallery  and  stepped  on  the  grass, 
which  was  still  as  green  and  bright  as  it  had  been  in 
midsummer  in  the  North.  A  tall  hedge  of  box 
screened  the  young  people  from  the  observation  of 
passers-by  on  Government  Street.  They  were  alone 
in  the  garden. 

Annandale,  romantic  name  which  carried  with  it 
reminiscent  memories  of  the  ancient  Scottish  home, 
the  seat  of  the  family,  stood  in  the  midst  of  a  square 
of  the  city  and  the  grounds  surrounding  it  were 
spacious  and  ample.  Right  in  the  centre  of  the  lawn 
rose  a  gigantic  live-oak,  its  trunk  separated  a  few  feet 
above  the  ground  into  huge  gnarled  limbs,  which,  with 
many  tortuous  windings,  extended  far  over  the  yard 
in  every  direction.  The  writhed  and  twisted  branches 

43 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

suggested   a  growth  of  centuries,   and  centuries  of 
struggle  at  that. 

"That  old  tree  is  still  the  same,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "a  little  older  but  no  different. 
It  does  not  change.  Come,"  extending  her  hand,  "let 
us  go  to  it." 

"Do  you  remember  when  I  was  here  three  years 
ago?  I  used  to  put  you  up  in  it,"  he  said,  as  they 
walked  under  the  branches  toward  its  trunk. 

"Yes,  I  remember." 

"Allow  me.     Twas  this  way." 

He  seized  her  by  the  waist  by  both  hands — she  was 
a  slender  young  thing  as  yet  and,  before  she  could 
prevent  him,  by  a  great  effort  he  lifted  her  up  to  the 
lowest  limb  and  set  her  down  upon  it.  Then  he  stood 
trembling  a  little,  his  dark  face  flushed  by  the  violence 
of  his  exertion.  She  was  heavier  than  he  had  thought, 
yet  he  would  rather  have  died  than  fail  to  place  her 
there  after  he  had  started  to  do  it.  In  spite  of  his 
philosophy  he  still  smarted  under  her  allusion  to  Bob 
Barrow's  superior  strength. 

"Why,  Mr.  Boyd !"  exclaimed  the  girl,  leaning  her 
back  against  the  trunk,  and  settling  herself  comfort 
ably  on  the  limb.  "Mr.  Bob  Darrow  himself  could 
not  have  done  it  better.  I  didn't  think  you  were  so 
strong." 

"Has  Darrow  been  lifting  you  up  here?"  he  ques 
tioned  jealously. 

"Of  course  not !"  indignantly.  "Nobody  ever  dared 
to  do  such  a  thing  before.  And  don't  you  dare  do  it 
again,  Mr.  Peyton!" 

44 


MARY  ANNAN  CHANGES  HER  MIND 

"Mary,"  whispered  Peyton,  "don't  say  that.  I'd 
love  to  spend  my  strength  and  my  life  just  lifting  you 
up." 

"You  are  incorrigible,"  she  answered. 

"Yes,   I  am  incorrigible  in  loving  you!" 

She  put  up  her  hand,  but  he  would  not  be  stayed. 
She  had  yet  to  learn  that  there  is  no  power  on  earth 
that  can  keep  a  man  who  loves  a  woman  from  telling 
that  woman  he  loves  her  when  he  feels  that  the  wom 
an  wants  to  hear  him,  and  almost  every  woman 
wants  to  hear!  Mary  Annan  certainly  did  not  love 
Boyd  Peyton.  At  least,  not  then.  She  liked  him 
extremely.  She  was  actually  fond  of  him.  No  one 
could  have  been  more  welcome  than  he  when  he  had 
visited  her  during  that  long  winter  in  Boston.  Her 
heart  had  gone  out  to  him  then,  and  perhaps  if  he  had 
mustered  courage  to  put  his  fate  to  the  touch  during 
that  happy  season,  he  might  have  found  his  fortune  in 
her  affection.  But  delays  are  dangerous,  not  only  in 
proverbs.  He  had  lost  the  advantage  of  his  unique 
position,  as  the  only  Southern  man  in  touch  with  her, 
through  his  scrupulous  delicacy  of  feeling;  and  when 
she  returned  home  to  find  herself  promptly  adored  by 
half  the  eligible  young  men  of  Mobile  and  Southern 
Alabama,  Boyd  Peyton  had  not  made  sufficient  im 
pression  upon  her  heart  to  have  attained  that  per 
manent  and  lasting  position  which  alone  could  satisfy 
him. 

Yet  she  was  by  no  means  disposed  to  dismiss  him 
out  of  hand.  The  young  lady  was  just  tasting  the 
sweets  of  power,  the  power  of  womanly  beauty  and 

45 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

feminine  charm,  both  of  which  she  wielded  in  great 
measure  over  the  manly  hearts  of  her  adorers.  She 
was  not  yet  surfeited  with  devotion,  and  while  she  re 
mained  heart  whole  and  fancy  free,  she  clung  with 
pretty  feminine  covetousness  to  each  old,  and  wel 
comed  with  innocent  avidity,  each  new  admirer.  The 
truth  was,  she  did  not  wish  to  marry  anyone  at  pres 
ent,  and  she  certainly  loved  no  one. 

Many  Southern  girls — most  of  them  possibly — and 
many  Northern  girls,  as  well,  were  married  and  had 
children  at  her  age,  but  she  had  no  mind  to  make  an 
early  marriage.  In  many  respects  she  was  not  much 
more  than  a  child,  although  her  position  as  head  of 
her  widowed  father's  household,  gave  her,  on  occasion, 
a  degree  of  dignity  and  self-possession  greater  than 
might  have  been  expected. 

If  the  truth  be  told,  she  was  a  great  deal  of  a 
coquette;  not  viciously  so,  but  from  the  pure  joy  of 
being  loved.  Indeed  the  graciousness  of  her  sym 
pathy  which  made  her  take  cognizance  of  the  various 
degrees  of  the  alleged  sufferings  confided  to  her  by 
aspirants  for  her  hand,  whom  she  neither  dismissed 
nor  accepted,  made  her  kinder  than  the  strict  canons 
of  conduct  might  have  permitted;  but  it  was  a  kind 
ness  which  bred  no  familiarity.  The  careful  reserve 
in  which  Southern  girls  of  her  day  and  station  were 
trained,  would  have  prevented  that,  if  any  of  her  ad 
mirers  had  so  far  forgotten  himself  as  to  deviate  from 
those  chivalrous  standards  of  conduct  which  were  the 
pride  of  the  Southern  gentleman. 

No  one,  however,  stood  higher  in  her  affection  than 

46 


MARY  ANNAN  CHANGES  HER  MIND 

the  sailor,  unless  it  might  be  Mr.  Bob  Darrow.  In 
some  instinctive  way  she  realized  that  she  was  not  yet 
capable  of  forming  a  sound  judgment  as  to  whom  to 
entrust  the  making  or  marring  of  her  life,  so  far  as 
another  could  do  it.  Though  she  had  been  finished 
at  the  "finishing  school,"  it  did  not  yet  appear  what 
she  should  be.  In  spite  of  her  years,  and  a  woman  de 
veloped  more  rapidly  and  earlier  in  the  warm  sunny 
South  than  in  the  colder  North,  there  was  about  her 
a  delightful  air  of  immaturity.  Not  the  immaturity 
that  is  callow  and  ignorant,  but  the  immaturity  of  in 
nocence,  physical  and  mental.  The  sweet  slender 
figure  was  full  of  delicious  promise.  The  quick  agile 
mind  predicated  delightful  capacities  and  pointed 
to  realizations  the  more  grateful  because  somewhat 
delayed. 

As  Peyton  leaned  against  the  tree  upon  which  she 
sat,  as  close  to  her  as  he  could  possibly  get  without 
actually  touching  her,  and  as  he  looked  adoringly  up 
into  her  soft  brown  eyes,  she  found  it  rather  pleasant, 
after  all.  Her  eyes  were  not  always  soft,  either. 
Sometimes  they  sparkled  with  light  as  the  breaking 
wave  does  upon  the  storm-tossed  sea,  and  sometimes 
they  swam  steadily  with  the  depth  of  a  still  pool  that 
compasses  upon  its  surface  a  picture  of  the  deepest 
heaven — as  they  did  at  that  moment.  As  the  young 
lover  marked  the  slow  rise  and  fall  of  the  girlish 
bosom,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  scarlet  ribbon  of  her 
mocking  lips,  as  he  watched  the  flush  of  warm  color 
in  her  dark  cheek — rich  hue  that  the  rose  might  have 
envied — he  longed  to  throw  the  restraints  of  custom 

47 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

to  the  four  winds  of  heaven  and  clasp  the  girl  in  his 
arms.  It  was  not  the  first,  nor  would  it  be  the  last, 
time  a  lover's  heart  rebelled  against  such  restraints. 

The  gentle  wind  laden  with  the  dying  fragrance  of 
the  fall,  in  riotous  profanation  lifted  the  long  brown 
curls  that  fell  upon  her  shoulders — oh,  wanton  wind ! 
The  same  breeze  blew  aside  the  long  full  skirt  she 
wore  and  disclosed  the  dainty  little  feet,  dangling  close 
to  his  side,  and  clad  in  black  cloth  heelless  ankle  ties, 
quite  like  those  that  Tempe  had  worn,  and  to  his 
fatuous  vision  but  slightly  larger.  The  wind  afforded 
him  ravishing  glimpses  of  her  slender  ankles  in  their 
white  stockings,  making  him  long  to  throw  himself 
upon  his  knees  and  press  kisses  of  adoration  upon  her 
shoes  even.  All  the  fire  and  passion  of  the  past  which 
he  had  repressed  so  long  quivered  in  his  voice  and 
shone  in  his  glance,  as  he  turned  his  face  up  toward 
her  and  spoke  to  her.  The  day,  the  hour,  the  place, 
the  position,  all  the  witchery  of  the  woman  possessed 
him.  There  was  a  mocking-bird  singing  somewhere 
near  them,  as  only  they  can  sing  in  the  South,  and 
his  words  blended  with  this  love-song  of  nature. 

"It's  out  now,"  he  murmured;  "what's  the  use  of 
trying  to  conceal  it  or  evade  it.  Every  look,  every 
word,  every  movement  of  mine  must  have  betrayed  me. 
I  didn't  say  anything  to  you  in  Boston —  not  in  words, 
that  is.  You  see,  I  was  afraid,  for  one  thing;  and 
for  another,  I  did  not  want  to  take  advantage  of  you. 
I  was  the  only  friend  you  had,  the  only  man,  and  I  had 
known  you  from  a  child.  I  was  a  Southerner,  and  I 
— and  we,"  he  went  on  softly,  "we  love  the  South. 

48  ' 


MARY  ANNAN  CHANGES  HER  MIND 

Had  I  been  born  in  New  England  I  should  have  loved 
the  South  since  it  is  your  land.  And  you  were  so 
young.  You  might  have  said  'Yes'  then." 

In  spite  of  herself,  the  girl,  listening  in  dreamy 
abandon  to  his  passionate  pleading,  nodded  her  head 
softly. 

"Oh,"  cried  Peyton,  conscious  of  her  slightest  mo 
tion,  "would  you  have  said  'Yes?'  " 

"I  might,"  she  whispered,  "then " 

"And  now?"  he  questioned  eagerly. 

"Oh,  now — it  is  different  now.  Don't  ask  me, 
Boyd." 

"I  must!    Is  it  because  there  is  someone  else?" 

"No,  there  is  no  one.  You  see  the  little  Southern 
bird  that  was  so  lonesome  up  North  is  out  of  the  cage 
now  and  she  loves — she  loves  everybody."  She  spread 
her  hands  abroad  with  a  delicious  gesture.  "There 
isn't  anyone  in  particular,  but  all — you,  as  well  as  the 
rest.  I  like  you,  oh,  very  much,  and  if  you  are  awfully 
in  love  with  me,  as  you  say  you  are,  I  am  very  sorry 
for  you.  I  am  sorry  for  them  all." 

"All?"  he  queried  jealously.  "What  do  you  mean 
by  that?" 

"Why,  I  mean  all  the  men  who  are  in  love  with  me 
and  that  I  am  not  in  love  with.  They  all  talk  as  you 
do,  Boyd." 

"Don't!"  he  protested  vehemently.  "I  cannot  be 
lieve  that  the  ephemeral  affection  of  the  men  you  meet 
can  be  likened  to  my  feeling.  I  tell  you,"  he  con 
tinued  almost  fiercely,  "you  do  not  dream  how  I  love 
you.  We  sailors  are  lonely  folk.  Do  you  know,  do 

49 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

you  realize,  that  winter  in  Boston  was  the  only  one 
I  ever  spent  in  the  society  of  a  girl,  a  woman?  Are 
you  a  woman,  I  wonder?" 

"Am  I  a  woman,  indeed !"  indignantly  and  with  sur 
prise. 

"Yes,  I  know,  in  years,  perhaps,  but  at  heart  only  a 
child." 

"A  child,  sir!  Well,  perhaps!  And  if  you  knew 
other  women,  may  be  you  wouldn't  care  so  much  for 
me." 

"It  would  not  make  any  difference;  I'd  care  for  no 
one  else.  You  are  all.  Ah,  when  I  sailed  away  last 
spring  and  left  you  I  took  with  me  such  a  memory  of 
you  as  completely  possessed  me.  I  did  my  duties,  of 
course;  I  had  been  so  trained.  That's  a  part  of  life, 
to  do  one's  duty.  I  lived  on  the  ship.  I  mingled  with 
the  others.  My  body  was  on  the  African  coast  but  my 
soul  was  where  you  were.  I  was  absent-minded,  dis 
trait.  My  shipmates  rallied  me  upon  it.  It  was  your 
fault.  I  was  thinking  of  you,  dreaming  of  you." 

Was  he  dreaming  again,  she  wondered,  bending  to 
look  at  him.  No,  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  his 
glance  burned  her,  yet  it  was  fascinating.  The  poet 
in  him  was  speaking  to  his  ideal.  That  was  she. 
Others  had  not  wooed  this  way.  She  was  not  in  love 
but  she  was  a  woman,  and  she  listened  with  a  wildly 
beating  heart.  He  compelled  her  to  do  so,  and  if  she 
did  not  yet  love  the  man,  she  loved  to  hear  his  words. 

"The  breeze  of  summer  wove  songs  about  your 
name  through  the  rigging,"  he  continued,  in  that  low 
voice  with  its  passionate  cadence.  "When  the  moon- 

50 


MARY  ANNAN  CHANGES  HER  MIND 

light  beat  upon  the  low-lying  sands  of  the  tropic  shore 
the  mist  wreathed  itself  into  figures  whose  airy  grace 
suggested  you  to  me.  Not  a  wave  that  caressed  the 
keel  of  the  ship  that  did  not  ripple  with  the  music  of 
your  laughter.  I  could  shut  my  eyes  and  hear  it 
now." 

He  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  leaned  his  head 
against  the  tree-trunk  and  was  silent  for  a  little  space. 
The  bird  sang  no  longer  now  and  she  wondered  if  he 
could  hear  her  heart  beating  in  that  silence.  She 
wished  he  would  go  on. 

"I  welcomed  the  night  watches/'  he  said  at  last. 
"They  were  never  lonely  to  me.  I  could  pace  the  deck 
and  think  of  you,  you,  only  you,  with  nothing  to  dis 
turb  or  distract  me.  Yes,  yes,  I  am  a  dreamer,  as 
you  have  said,  but  I  did  not  create  an  ideal,  I  found  it 
in  you.  Beloved,  you  know  not  what  this  has  meant 
to  me.  You  do  not  know  what  it  means  now.  I 
said  you  were  a  child,  and  you  are.  But  some  day  you 
will  be  a  woman,  and  then  you  will  understand.  Per 
haps  it  is  not  altogether  you  now  that  I  love,  that  I 
worship,  but  what  I  see  in  you,  what  you  will  be." 

She  took  no  offence  at  his  frankness,  but  listened, 
drinking  in  every  word. 

"I  have  made  you  the  object  of  my  ambition,  the 
end  and  aim  of  my  life.  Every  hope  that  I  cherish 
centres  in  you.  Every  desire  that  I  entertain  has  you 
for  its  realization.  I  long  to  do  something  for  you, 
to  have  some  task  set  me,  some  great  achievement 
placed  before  me,  that  I  may  show  you  what  love 
means.  I  ask  nothing  now.  I  am  content  to  stand 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

here  below  you  and  look  up  at  you,  to  kiss  the  hem  of 
your  garment." 

Again  he  suited  the  action  to  the  word,  with  a 
reverence  which  touched  her  soul. 

"To  be  near  you  is  enough  now,  but  some  day  I 
must  have  more.  I  must  have  all.  Until  that  time 
comes  and  you  come  to  me  with  it,  I  shall  wait.  No, 
not  patiently,  not  willingly,  but  because  I  must.  Do 
you  understand?" 

His  voice  had  grown  softer  as  he  spoke.  How 
handsome  he  looked  with  his  head  thrown  back,  his 
eyes  confirming  every  word  that  his  lips  had  uttered ! 
The  being  of  the  girl  thrilled  in  response  to  the  feel 
ing  and  passion  in  his  love-making.  She  bowed  to 
that  revelation  of  his  heart. 

"I  understand,"  she  murmured  in  answer  at  last; 
"speak  on.  There  is  music  to  my  heart  in  what  you 
say.  I  am  a  child.  I  do  not  know  yet  what  love 
means,  as  you  know  it,  as  you  have  told  it.  But  per 
haps  I  shall  learn.  You  may  teach  me,  and  with  such 
a  master  may  I  be  an  apt  pupil.  Here  is  my  hand 
upon  it." 

He  seized  the  slender,  graceful  brown  hand  she  ex 
tended,  and  with  old-fashioned  grace — alas  that  the 
custom  has  gone ! — pressed  a  long  kiss  upon  it  while 
she  continued: 

"There  is  no  one  else  yet,  and  I  hope "  Her 

voice  sank  to  a  whisper.  She  turned  her  head  away. 
A  rift  of  sunlight  drifted  through  the  trembling  foliage 
and  fell  upon  her  hair  and  burnished  it  with  color.  "I 
hope,"  she  murmured,  withdrawing  her  hand  and  lay- 

52 


MARY  ANNAN  CHANGES  HER  MIND 

ing  it  upon  his  head,  "that  some  day  it  may  be  as  you 
wish." 

"Thank  God!  Thank  God,"  he  exclaimed,  "for 
that  blessed  assurance,  and  may  He  bring  all  my 
dreams  to  pass!" 

And  above  them  the  mocking-bird  burst  into  song 
again. 


CHAPTER  VI 


WHAT  HAPPENED   ON  THE   SHELL  ROAD 


H 


IGH  noon  and  high  tide  on  the  Shell 
Road.  The  sunlight  was  flooding  the 
waters  of  Mobile  Bay  extending  un 
broken  from  the  shore  as  far  as  eye 
could  see.  Below  the  broad  splen 
did  road  on  the  bluffs,  a  lonely  stretch 
of  white  sand  contrasted  vividly  with 
the  deep  tropic  blue  of  the  water, 
tossed  into  a  thousand  white  capped 
waves  by  the  fresh  breeze.  The  gray 
road  following  the  curves  of  the  shore 
was  untenanted  at  the  moment  save  by 
three  persons  on  horseback. 

Although  he  was  a  sailor — and  men 
of  the  sea  are  proverbially  indifferent 
horsemen — Boyd  Peyton  rode  with  the 
ease  of  a  Southern  cavalier  long  ac 
customed  to  the  saddle.  His  companion  was  a  good 
match  for  him.  He  had  never  seen  Mary  Annan 
upon  a  horse  before,  at  least  not  since  he  was  a  child 
when  he  had  taken  little  note  of  such  things,  but  the 
easy  grace  with  which  she  sat  her  spirited  and  high 
bred  horse,  the  skill  with  which  she  managed  him 
therefore  the  more  delighted  him. 

54 


ON    THE    SHELL    ROAD 

She  wore  a  close-fitting  riding  habit  of  navy  blue,  a 
little  stiff  hat  to  match  it,  with  a  gray  veil  drooping 
behind  it,  and  gray  gauntlets.  She  had  exchanged 
her  ankle  ties  for  dainty  little  boots,  and  as  he  had 
mounted  her  upon  her  horse  he  had  not  failed  to 
notice  her  small  high-arched  instep,  the  hall-mark  of 
the  high-bred  Southern  woman,  which  she  had  to  per 
fection.  The  force  of  the  breeze,  accentuated  by  their 
quick  motion,  had  added  a  deeper  color  to  the  rich 
ness  of  her  brown  cheek.  The  wind  blew  her  hair 
hither  and  thither  as  they  galloped  along.  She 
laughed  aloud  sometimes  in  the  very  heedless  joy  in 
life.  She  was  so  young  and  so  happy.  Jerry,  the 
negro  groom,  in  the  Annan  livery,  who  rode  some 
distance  behind  them,  if  he  thought  of  them  at  all, 
would  have  called  them  a  handsome  pair. 

Peyton  had  spent  the  entire  morning  at  Annan- 
dale  renewing  his  acquaintance  with  the  Judge.  After 
luncheon  he  had  begged  Mary  to  ride  with  him 
on  the  Shell  Road,  then,  as  now,  the  driving  and 
riding  resort  of  fashionable  Mobile.  It  was  yet  so 
early  in  the  afternoon,  however,  that  they  had  the 
road  to  themselves.  Mary  Annan  was  more  the  mis 
tress  of  the  situation  on  horseback  than  she  had  been 
on  the  live-oak,  and  when  Peyton  had  attempted  to 
continue  the  conversation  in  the  strain  of  the  morning, 
she  had  burst  away  from  him  with  a  dash  of  speed 
which  challenged  his  horsemanship  and  which  pres 
ently  settled  into  a  long  swinging  gallop,  side  by  side, 
which  carried  them  over  the  road  at  a  great  pace. 

Peyton  was  as  full  of  satisfaction  as  anything  short 

55 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

of  her  complete  acceptance  of  him  could  have  made 
him.  He  loved  her,  he  had  told  her  so  in  spite  of 
his  promise,  and  she  had  listened  at  last  in  spite  of  her 
refusal,  and  had  half  responded.  He  was  determined 
to  win  her  and  she  had  given  him  hope.  It  was 
enough  to  make  any  man  happy.  The  added  exhilara 
tion  of  the  rapid  gallop  completed  his  joy.  All  too 
soon  they  drew  rein  at  Frederic's  Inn  at  the  end  of 
the  made  road. 

Far  to  the  front  of  them  the  unpaved  road,  ab 
ruptly  degenerating  into  a  mere  bridle  path,  wound 
through  the  woods  and  lost  itself  in  the  distance 
among  the  trees. 

"Let  us  alight  from  the  horses  and  go  out  on  the 
wharf  yonder,"  said  Peyton,  pointing  off  to  the  left 
where  a  long  wharf  on  piles  extended  far  out  over  the 
water. 

"I  think  I  should  like  it,"  replied  the  girl;  "I  am  a 
little  tired  after  our  rapid  gallop." 

He  sprang  down  from  his  horse  instantly,  stretched 
up  his  arms  and  lifted  her  lightly  from  the  saddle  so 
soon  as  her  permission  was  given;  and  again  she 
noticed  that  the  strength  with  which  he  lifted  her  be 
lied  his  slender,  somewhat  delicate  appearance.  Leav 
ing  the  horses  to  the  care  of  the  negro  he  helped  her 
down  the  steps  and  they  walked  slowly  out  to  the  end 
of  the  wharf. 

"I  know  not  which  is  the  more  beautiful,"  said  the 
girl,  as  they  paused  at  the  boat-landing.  "Look  at 
the  road.  Is  there  another  such  on  the  continent?  I 
love  those  great  live-oaks,  green  still  although  it  is 

56 


ON    THE    SHELL    ROAD 

winter,  and  all  the  vivid  rich  color  of  those  huge 
broad-leaved  magnolia-trees." 

She  stretched  out  her  arms  to  the  picturesque  shore 
as  if  she  would  clasp  it  in  loving  embrace. 

"Yes,"  answered  Peyton,  smiling  approvingly  at  her 
enthusiasm,  "and  what  makes  the  oaks  more  beauti 
ful  is  the  long  gray  festoons  of  that  Spanish  moss 
hanging  from  every  limb,  and  the  mistletoe  clustered 
around  the  tops.  Even  the  white  China  berries  and 
the  red  yupons  and  those  little  bayonet  palms  add  to 
the  charm.  But  beauty  is  upon  this  side,  too,"  he 
added,  sweeping  his  arm  seaward,  jealous  for  his 
chosen  element.  "I  never  expected  to  be  a  sailor." 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "you  should  have  been  a  poet." 

The  words  cut  him  a  little,  but  he  knew  that  she 
meant  nothing  by  it. 

"Yes,  perhaps;  but  since  I  am  a  sailor,  I  am  glad. 
There  is  no  touch  of  verdant  nature  on  the  sea,  but  it 
has  a  freshness  and  a  life  of  its  own;  and  the  waves,  see 
how  they  splash!  In  their  light  and  airy  play  they 
remind  me  of  you." 

"Does  everything  remind  you  of  me,  I  wonder?" 
turning  to  look  at  him. 

"Everything  that  is  beautiful,"  he  answered 
promptly.  For  the  life  of  her  she  could  not  but  be 
pleased  with  such  exquisite  love-making,  and,  smil 
ing,  she  showed  her  pleasure.  "To  me,"  he  con 
tinued,  "you  stand  for  everything  that  is  lovely,  not 
only  beauty,  grace,  charm,  but  the  crown  of  woman 
hood  besides.  You  are  so  pure  and  sweet — in  your 
soul,  I  mean.  In  my  sight  you  are  purity  itself, 

57 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

purer  than  the  snow  upon  the  mountain  upon  which 
not  even  the  wing  of  the  eagle  has  ever  cast  a 
shadow,  and  you  are  as  far  above  me  as  that  same 
crest." 

He  was  dreaming  of  her  again  and  reading  his 
dreams  aloud,  and,  as  before,  she  listened  eagerly. 

"Speak  to  me,  dearest,"  he  said  at  last,  as  if  just 
awakened;  "I  love  to  hear  you  speak. 

Ah,  with  laughing  water  mingle 
The  love-song  of  your  choice ; 

'Twill  be  but  shadowed  echo 
To  the  music  of  your  voice. 

It  enchants  me.     I'd  rather  hear  it  than " 

"That's  a  perfectly  lovely  verse,  Boyd,"  she  inter 
rupted.  "Who  wrote  it  ?" 

"I  did.  'A  poor  thing,  but  my  own/  "  he  quoted 
softly;  "you  said  I  was  a  poet.  I've  written  reams  of 
verses  about  you,  but  they  do  not  satisfy  me;  nothing 
I  could  say  would  measure  up  to  my  standard  of  de 
votion  to  you.  I  feel  humble  before  you,  unworthy 
of  you.  Yet  I  aspire  beyond  merit,  or  desert,  be 
cause  I  love  you." 

"No,  no,  you  exalt  me  too  much,"  cried  the  girl. 
"I  am  nothing  that  you  say.  I  am  not  at  all  what  you 
think  me.  I  am  nothing  but  an  ordinary  Southern 
girl  who " 

"Who  is  the  queen  of  my  heart  forever,"  he  inter 
rupted,  taking  her  hand.  "No,  don't  draw  it  away," 
he  continued;  "let  me  have  this  hour  for  my  own. 
Something  tells  me  that  I  shall  not  have  many." 

58 


ON    THE    SHELL    ROAD 

It  was  useless,  wrong,  foolish,  yet  she  let  him  retain 
the  hand  for  a  little  space,  soon  to  be  terminated. 

"What's  that?"  she  said  slowly,  at  last,  drawing  away 
her  hand  as  her  eyes  turned  from  him  and  for  a  brief 
space  searched  the  shore. 

"Where?"  disappointment  speaking  in  his  voice. 

"There !  Coming  along  the  road  toward  Frederic's ! 
A  horseman !  See,  he  is  waving  to  us !  Now  I  recog 
nize  him.  I'd  know  that  gray  horse  among  a  thou 
sand.  It's  Mr.  Bob  Darrow.  He's  shouting  some 
thing.  He  has  a  message  for  us  evidently.  What  can 
it  be?  Some  word  from  father,  perhaps.  Come,  let 
us  go  to  meet  him." 

She  was  half  glad,  half  sorry,  for  the  interruption. 
It  was  becoming  more  and  more  difficult  to  keep  her 
lover  within  those  agreeable  bounds  which  her  mind, 
if  not  her  heart,  indicated  as  properly  restrained.  She 
liked  to  hear  him,  but  she  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that 
things  could  not  go  on  for  long  as  they  were.  She 
must  respond  in  some  way  soon.  And  she  was  ready 
neither  to  dismiss  nor  to  accept  him  then.  Like  many 
another  woman,  she  wanted  time.  Gathering  her 
skirts  in  her  hand,  she  ran  along  the  wharf,  tripped 
up  the  stairs,  and  reached  her  own  horse  just  as  Dar 
row  reined  in  his  gray. 

He  had  ridden  as  if  pursued.  His  horse  was 
quivering  with  excitement  and  flecked  with  foam.  As 
he  was  jerked  back  on  his  haunches  by  his  rider's  pow 
erful  hand  Darrow  sprang  to  the  ground,  tore  his  hat 
from  his  head  with  his  gauntleted  hand,  and  cried  out 
his  message.  His  eyes  were  shining,  his  fair  face  was 

59 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

crimson  with  color.  His  voice  trembled  with  the 
heavy  purport  of  his  tidings. 

"I  went  to  your  house,  Miss  Mary,"  he  cried,  "they 
told  me  that  you  had  come  riding  here.  How  are  you, 
Peyton?  Glad  to  see  you  back.  You  came  in  the 
nick  of  time,  old  fellow,"  he  continued,  clasping  the 
other's  outstretched  hand.  It  was  the  first  time  the 
friends  had  met  for  years,  but  Darrow  had  time  for 
no  other  greeting.  "I  knew  you  would  be  crazy  to 
hear  the  news,  Miss  Mary,"  he  added,  turning  once 
more  to  the  girl,  "so  I  saddled  the  gray  here  and  rode 
like  one  possessed  to  find  you  and  tell  you." 

"What  is  the  news,  Mr.  Darrow?"  asked  the  girl 
eagerly. 

"South  Carolina  has  gone  out  of  the  Union.  The 
ordinance  of  secession  was  passed  at  Charleston  at  one 
o'clock  to-day.  This  is  the  beginning  of  the  Southern 
Republic,"  he  cried  exultingly. 

He  waved  his  hat  in  the  air  and  made  the  live-oaks 
ring  with  a  mighty  cheer,  in  which  the  shriller  voice 
of  the  girl  triumphantly  joined. 


CHAPTER  VII 


THE  WOMAN  BETWEEN 

EYTON  stood  looking  at  the  pair  in 
dazed  surprise.  The  news  so  start 
ling,  which  his  companions  received 
with  such  demonstrations  of  joy,  was 
appalling  to  him.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  make  of  it.  Mary  Annan  had 
noticed  his  silence,  but  she  made  no 
comment  on  it,  and  indeed  Darrow 
gave  them  no  time  for  reflection,  for 
as  he  recovered  himself  a  little  he  con 
tinued  his  story  excitedly. 

"The  whole  town  is  in  a  ferment." 
"Are  they  going  to  do  anything?" 
asked  the  girl. 

"I  think  so.  Telegrams  were  com 
ing  down  from  Montgomery  in  a  perfect  stream  when 
I  left.  I  suppose  there  will  be  a  parade  or  salute,  or 
something  of  that  sort." 

"Well,  let  us  ride  back  at  once,"  said  the  girl.  "I 
am  so  excited  I  can  hardly  breathe.  I  would  not  miss 
it  for  anything.  Isn't  it  splendid!  Jerry,"  she  con 
tinued,  turning  to  the  groom,  "my  horse." 

As  the  negro,  who  had  watched  the  scene  with  un 
moved  gravity,  little  comprehending  its  ultimate 
meaning  to  him  and  his  race,  led  forward  the  horse, 

61 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

both  young  men  sprang  to  assist  her  to  mount.  She 
looked  from  one  outstretched  hand  to  the  other,  and 
turning  to  Peyton  put  her  little  foot  in  his  palm.  He 
flashed  a  look  of  gratitude  toward  her  as  he  lifted  her 
into  the  saddle;  but  his  joy  was  not  allowed  free  course, 
for,  with  an  instinct  of  kindness  which  is  sometimes 
mistaken  for  coquetry,  she  turned  to  Darrow,  whose 
face  was  flushed  with  disappointment,  and  said,  "I 
came  with  Mr.  Peyton,  you  know,"  which  simple  re 
mark  did  a  great  deal  to  dim  the  brightness  of  Pey 
ton's  satisfaction  and  diminish  the  poignancy  of  Dar- 
row's  regret. 

Both  men  sprang  to  their  saddles  then,  and  both  in 
stinctively  made  for  the  right  side  of  the  girl,  and  for 
a  moment  it  looked  as  if  there  might  be  a  collision;  but 
Darrow  recovered  himself  quickly  and  reined  in  his 
horse. 

"The  place  of  honor  is  yours,  Boyd.  You  are  Miss 
Mary's  escort  this  morning,  so  go  ahead.  Besides, 
you  are  a  stranger,  too.  I  surrender  the  privilege." 

"That's  handsome  of  you,  old  fellow,"  returned  his 
friend,  smiling,  as  Darrow  wheeled  around  to  the  left 
side  of  Mary  Annan. 

"If  you  have  finished  your  discussion,  gentlemen," 
she  said,  smiling  in  spite  of  herself  with  pleasure  at 
the  jealous  little  rivalry,  "let  us  ride  on.  I  cannot  wait 
to  be  there." 

She  shook  the  reins  over  the  horse's  neck,  touched 
him  lightly  with  the  whip  she  carried,  and  he  broke 
into  a  long,  swinging  gallop,  an  example,  of  course, 
followed  by  the  other  two.  They  fairly  raced  along 

62 


THE   WOMAN   BETWEEN 

the  road  at  a  pace  which  made  connected  conversa 
tion  impossible.  They  covered  the  distance  very 
rapidly  without  break  or  stop  until  they  reached  the 
outskirts  of  the  town.  As  they  turned  into  Emmanuel 
Street,  Mary  Annan  reined  in  her  panting  horse  and 
cantered  slowly  down  the  street. 

"My!"  she  said,  with  cheerful  gladness,  "that  was 
a  splendid  dash !  I  do  not  believe  we  were  more  than 
half  an  hour  doing  the  distance.  Your  gray  looks 
tired,  Mr.  Darrow." 

"Yes,"  said  Darrow,  patting  his  horse,  "you  see  he 
has  had  a  double  run." 

"What  time  is  it?"  she  continued,  turning  to  Pey 
ton. 

"About  half  after  two,  I  think,"  he  replied,  as  he 
took  out  his  watch  and  glanced  at  it.  "Yes,  just. 
Five  bells,  a  sailor  would  say." 

"Shall  we  be  in  time?" 

"Oh,  I  think  so,"  answered  Darrow.  "Hark! 
What's  that !  It's  the  band !" 

"Come,"  said  the  girl  impatiently,  urging  her  horse 
into  a  gallop  again,  "let's  hurry  on." 

"I  think  we  can  intercept  them  on  Government 
Street  if  we  keep  straight  on,"  said  Darrow,  as  he  and 
Peyton  followed  her  example. 

"What  will  it  be,  do  you  think?"  she  cried. 

"Oh,  a  parade,  or  a  salute,  perhaps  both." 

In  a  short  time  they  reached  the  junction  of  Em 
manuel  and  Government  Streets.  The  broad,  splen 
did  road,  lined  with  magnificent  old  houses  embowered 
in  trees,  was  filled  with  people.  Some  squares  away  to 

63 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

the  left  came  the  band  of  music,  followed  by  marching 
bodies  of  gayly  uniformed  men.  The  sunlight  spark 
ling  on  steel  bayonets  told  the  trio  that  they  were  the 
soldiers.  They  were  accompanied  as  usual  by  throngs 
of  people,  and  the  street  was  rapidly  filling  up.  Boys 
and  girls,  black  and  white,  capered  in  the  street  in  time 
to  the  music. 

"What's  that  they  are  playing?"  asked  Peyton 
curiously. 

"It's  a  new  song,"  answered  Mary,  "  'Listen  to  the 
Mocking  Bird/  it's  called.  I  will  sing  it  for  you  the 
next  time  you  are  at  the  house." 

"Yes,  we  have  all  enjoyed  hearing  you  sing  it,  Miss 
Mary,"  put  in  Darrow  deftly,  quite  nullifying  the 
pleasure  Peyton  had  taken  in  the  promise. 

Darrow  was  a  magnificent  horseman.  He  seemed 
a  part  of  his  steed.  No  centaur  could  have  ridden 
more  superbly.  Six  feet  high,  splendidly  propor 
tioned,  he  made  a  grand  picture  sitting  his  great 
gray  horse.  No  one  could  be  in  greater  contrast  to 
Peyton  than  he.  His  eyes  were  blue,  his  hair  sunny, 
his  complexion  florid,  an  unusual  but  not  impossible 
type  for  a  Southerner.  Physically  he  was  the  incarna 
tion  of  force  and  strength,  both  tempered  by  Southern 
courtesy  and  refinement.  He  was  the  personification 
of  headlong  recklessness  and  valor.  Fear  was  abso 
lutely  left  out  of  his  personality.  No  one  had  ever 
seen  him  blench,  or  quail,  or  tremble.  Gay,  joyous, 
debonair,  he  was  a  man  calculated  not  only  to  win  the 
heart  of  almost  any  woman,  but  awaken  the  admiration 
of  men  as  well. 

64 


THE    WOMAN    BETWEEN 

Yet  there  was  something  lacking  about  him.  In 
the  hidden  depths  of  his  nature  in  which  a  man  shows 
what  he  is  fundamentally  he  was  not  quite  so  ad 
mirable.  A  touch  of  soul  was  wanting  in  him.  The 
spiritual  side  of  his  nature  had  suffered  at  the  expense 
of  the  material.  In  that  particular  he  was  also  of  a 
type  antipodal  to  Peyton,  for  Peyton's  physical  nature 
had  suffered  at  the  expense  of  his  spiritual.  The  one 
needed  sorrow  and  trouble  and  love — are  they 
synonyms? — to  refine  him;  the  other  required  work 
and  danger  and  disappointment  and  love — are  they 
synonyms,  too? — to  blunt  him,  as  it  were,  and  make 
him  practical  and  practicable  in  this  workaday  world. 
A  crisis  would  make  or  unmake  each  man. 

Singularly  enough,  the  girl  who  sat  between  the 
two  men,  glancing  from  one  to  the  other,  as  she 
marked  them  both  during  the  dash  on  the  Shell  Road, 
was  to  furnish  the  element  which  should  perfect  and 
supply  the  lack  in  the  character  of  the  two  who  loved 
her  so.  She  had  spoken  but  little  during  their  wild 
riding,  but  her  thoughts  had  been  the  more  busy  on 
that  account.  While  they,  with  masculine  directness 
stared  at  her,  she,  with  a  woman's  delicate  capacity 
for  concealment,  was  furtively  inspecting  them.  She 
would  not  have  been  a  woman  had  she  not  admired 
the  splendid  physical  vigor  of  Darrow.  He  always  ap 
pealed  powerfully  to  one  side  of  her  nature,  sometimes 
almost  irresistibly  so.  Yet  in  her  deeper  soul  there 
was  something  that  responded  with  equal,  nay,  greater 
force,  to  the  spiritual  appeal  made  by  her  more  refined 
and  less  material  companion.  It  must  not  be  con- 

65 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

eluded  that  either  man  entirely  lacked  the  qualities 
with  which  the  other  was  so  abundantly  dowered;  not 
at  all,  and  perhaps  the  difference  between  them  seemed 
greater  when  attention  was  called  to  it  than  it  really 
was,  but  the  two  tendencies  existed. 

Darrow,  like  Peyton,  was  deeply  in  love  with  Mary 
Annan.  He  had  paid  court  to  many  women  after  the 
chivalrous  practice  of  the  deferential  Southern  gentle 
man,  but  no  one  had  ever  stirred  him  to  such  depths 
of  feeling  as  this  exquisite  girl.  His  soul  was  trem 
bling  in  the  balance  under  her  hand.  A  touch  might 
call  it  forth.  His  voice  softened  in  her  presence.  A 
little  bit  of  the  audacity  and  boldness  of  his  splendid 
bearing  was  subdued  when  she  was  near.  The  girl 
made  him  more  gentle,  more  tender,  a  nobler  man. 
Her  personality  laid  a  hand  upon  him  which  almost 
seemed  to  say  to  his  soul,  "Ephphatha,  Be  Opened !" 
Singular  to  say  the  same  touch  upon  Peyton  produced 
the  contrary  effect.  His  love  for  Mary  Annan,  and 
her  character  as  he  saw  it,  as  he  idealized  it,  to  some 
extent — and  love  is  not  love  when  it  fails  to  idealize 
the  object  of  affection  —  stiffened  his  arm,  and 
strengthened  his  heart  and  made  him  resolve  to  do 
more  than  dream  of  noble  things  for  her.  It  brought 
out  his  innate  strength  and  virility.  It  armored  him 
in  masculine  steel. 

The  focal  point  in  life  for  man  is  woman.  Well 
is  she  styled  "the  complement  of  man."  Without  her 
he  would  be  nothing.  The  distinction  of  sex  is  the 
great  physical  fact  upon  which  the  world  depends,  and 
in  the  altruism  of  woman  is  found  the  basis  of  re- 

66 


THE    WOMAN    BETWEEN 

ligion.  The  Son  of  Man  Himself  was  born  of  a 
woman.  Short-sighted  humanity  sometimes  describes 
hers  as  the  weaker  sex!  Here  was  a  young,  un 
formed,  undeveloped  woman,  scarcely  more  than  a 
girl  as  yet,  and  the  characters  of  two  men  in  touch 
with  her  were  being  evolved  by  her  influence,  her 
personality. 

There  is  something  of  the  poet  in  every  lover.  In 
Mary  Annan's  presence  the  spiritual  was  bourgeon 
ing  in  Darrow's  heart.  And  there  is  something  else, 
which,  for  lack  of  a  better  term,  may  be  described  as 
the  material,  in  every  lover's  purpose.  There  is  some 
thing  virile  and  active  in  every  great  passion — else 
it  is  not  great — and  this  was  moving  in  Peyton's 
mind. 

The  girl  comprehended  the  case  of  her  two  lovers 
but  dimly.  She  partially  discerned  it  in  both  instances 
by  a  sort  of  instinct  which  she  could  neither  analyze 
nor  understand.  Yet  there  was  something  exhilarat 
ing  in  the  situation.  It  was  only  play  to  her  as  yet, 
but  the  play  was  with  edged  tools  and  hot  coals,  and 
the  excitement  of  it  was  superb.  When  she  herself 
came  to  comprehend  by  introspection  the  power  of 
either  passion,  and  came  under  the  influence  of  the 
one  or  the  other,  the  play  would  cease  to  be  play.  It 
would  be  life  or  death.  Life  to  one,  death  to  the 
other.  What  for  her? 

As  she  sat  between  them  she  inclined  now  to  the 
right,  now  to  the  left,  and  knew  not  whither  she  would 
finally  tend.  No  one  else  knew  it  either,  and  as  the 
young  men  measured  each  other  mentally  and  out- 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

wardly,  they  were,  while  equally  resolute,  equally  un 
determined.  Not  gifted  with  such  instinct  as  the  girl, 
one  at  least  not  given  to  unconscious  analysis,  they 
saw  in  each  other  only  rivals.  Yet  each  was  generous 
enough  to  admire  in  the  other  the  quality  or  qualities 
he  himself  lacked. 

Peyton  would  have  given  anything  for  a  measure  of 
Barrow's  splendid  magnetic,  magnificent  personality; 
and  Darrow  humbly  wished  that  some  of  the  delicate 
perception  and  fine  high  spirit  of  the  other  man  had 
fallen  to  his  lot.  Each  was  in  a  fair  way  of  amend 
ment  when  he  recognized  the  goodness  of  his  rival's 
qualities. 

The  two  men  had  been  friends  from  boyhood.  The 
frank,  impulsive  nature  o\  the  larger  man,  who  was 
also  the  older,  had  fitted  in  with  the  quieter,  more 
restrained  habit  of  the  younger.  They  had  been  to 
each  other  as  body  and  soul.  They  made  an  ideal 
combination  therefore.  One  planned,  the  other  ex 
ecuted.  Not  altogether  is  the  statement  true  again; 
but,  broadly  speaking,  it  was  Peyton's  subtle  mind 
and  Barrow's  powerful  personality  that  worked  to 
gether.  Oftentimes  Peyton's  ideas  were  utterly  im 
practicable,  equally  often  Barrow's  insight  was  entirely 
lacking,  yet  together  they  supplemented  each  other. 
In  a  great  emergency,  if  any  had  ever  arisen,  the  com 
bination  would  have  been  ideal  and  success  certain. 
There  never  had  been  a  cloud  upon  their  friendship. 
The  only  thing  that  breaks  friendships  like  that  be 
tween  man  and  man  is  woman.  They  had  been  too 
young,  and  too  much  separated  in  their  later  life,  for 

68 


THE   WOMAN    BETWEEN 

that  factor  to  have  thrust  itself  upon  their  affections, 
but  now  it  was  quite  apparent  that  the  inevitable  had 
at  last  arrived. 

With  rapid  advance  the  little  parade  on  the  street 
drew  nearer  to  the  party  on  horseback  at  the  corner  of 
Emmanuel  Street.  There  had  been  no  time  to  as 
semble  the  general  military  force  of  the  several  com 
panies,  so  that  only  the  Mobile  Cadets,  the  crack  or 
ganization  of  the  community,  were  in  line  as  escort  to 
the  Light  Battery.  Very  handsome  the  young  fel 
lows  looked  in  their  gray  uniforms  faced  with  black, 
with  their  pomponned  caps,  just  the  uniform  of  the 
famous  Seventh  New  York,  by  the  way.  They  came 
tramping  gayly  down  the  street,  following  the  band 
playing  the  stirring  march  which,  although  it  was 
written  by  a  Northern  man,  was  yet  essentially  South 
ern  in  its  character,  and  was  already  in  great  favor 
on  the  nether  side  of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line.  The 
shrill  fifes  trilled  the  refrain  almost  with  the  mel 
lifluous  madness  of  the  gay  bird  itself.  The  people 
cheered  frantically  as  the  Cadets  swept  by  followed  by 
the  lumbering  guns  of  the  battery. 

As  Captain  Sands,  who  commanded  the  battalion, 
caught  sight  of  Mary  Annan  and  her  two  companions 
he  shouted  a  sudden  command  and  instantly  the  guns 
of  the  soldiers  dropped  from  their  shoulders  into  a 
marching  salute,  which  the  girl  acknowledged  with  a 
graceful  bend  of  the  head  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  her 
face  mantling  with  pleasure  at  the  honor.  The  com 
pany  marched  under  their  own  flag,  and  for  the  first 
time  they  paraded  through  the  streets  of  Mobile  with- 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

out  carrying  the  ensign  of  the  United  States.  All 
three  spectators  noticed  the  omission. 

"See,"  cried  the  girl,  "they  have  discarded  the 
United  States  flag." 

"Yes,  by  heaven,"  said  Darrow,  "they  have  given  it 
up  at  last!"  There  was  a  little  touch  of  awe  in  his 
voice.  "At  last,"  he  continued;  "well,  I  am  glad  of 
it,  for  one,"  he  burst  out  impulsively.  "We  will  have 
a  new  flag  of  our  own  now." 

Peyton  said  nothing.  He  only  held  himself  very 
straight  in  the  saddle  and  looked  sternly  ahead.  Again 
there  came  upon  his  face  that  peculiar  tightening 
which  gave  a  touch  of  grimness  to  his  usual  appear 
ance.  The  woman  alone  noticed  it. 

The  artillery  had  followed  the  example  of  the 
Cadets  and  had  discarded  the  United  States  flag  also, 
but  on  the  flank  of  the  battery  rode  two  markers  with 
guidons.  There  had  been  no  time  to  substitute  any 
others,  and  as  the  markers  were  necessary  for  the 
evolutions  of  the  battery  they  were  perforce  carried 
in  the  parade.  They  were  little  swallow-tailed  ban 
nerets,  each  one,  however,  bearing  the  old  familiar 
stars  and  stripes.  As  they  passed  down  the  street 
Peyton's  right  hand  instinctively  went  to  his  hat.  He 
took  it  off  and  holding  his  arm  across  his  breast  laid 
his  hat  upon  his  left  shoulder. 


CHAPTER  VIII 


PEYTON  SALUTES  THE  FLAG 


W 


HAT  are  you  doing,  Boyd?"  cried 
Mary  Annan,  attracted  by  the  move 
ment,  turning  to  him  in  great  surprise. 
"Saluting  the  flag  of  the  United 
States,"  answered  the  young  man 
sternly. 

"What!  You  don't  mean — "  inter 
rupted  Darrow. 

"I  mean  that  I  am  still  an  officer  of 
the  United  States  Government,  and  it 
is  my  duty  to  respect  the  flag,"  said 
Peyton  decisively. 

"He  is  right,"  said  Darrow  impul 
sively,  taking  off  his  own  hat  in  turn. 
"Maybe    it's    the    last    time,    but    the 
old  flag  is  still  ours.     Alabama  is  not 
yet  out  of  the  Union." 

"Not  yet,"  cried  Mary  Annan,  "but  it  will  be,  and 
I  but  anticipate.  I  shall  not  salute  it,  and  I  beg  you 
both  not  to  do  it  either." 

"As  you  will,"  said  Darrow  with  careless  compli 
ance,  covering  his  head  again. 

But  Peyton,  disregarding  her  words  and  the  angry 
flush  on  her  face,  although  it  cost  him  much  to  do  so, 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

stared  motionless  straight  ahead  of  him  and  remained 
uncovered  until  the  guidons  had  passed  well  by  him. 
In  spite  of  herself  the  girl's  heart  warmed  toward  him. 
That  touch  of  sternness  well  became  him.  The  un 
usual  resolution  which  sparkled  in  his  eye,  in  spite  of 
the  tremble  on  his  lips,  thrilled  her,  yet  womanlike  she 
turned  to  Darrow. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  "you  have  done  what  a  true 
son  of  Alabama  should  do." 

"At  your  command,  Miss  Mary,"  laughed  Darrow 
cheerfully,  saluting  her  in  turn.  "But,  you  see,  I 
am  not  an  officer  of  the  United  States." 

He  generously  strove  to  say  a  good  word  for  poor 
Peyton. 

"No,  I  am  thankful  you  are  not." 

"But  if  I  had  been  I  should  have " 

"Do  not  say  any  more,  Mr.  Darrow.  You  are  not, 
and  you  did  not,  and  that's  enough,"  interrupted  the 
girl  proudly. 

She  allowed  her  displeasure  at  Peyton's  obstinacy 
— so  she  characterized  it  in  her  mind — to  appear  in  her 
voice  and  manner.  It  cut  him  to  the  heart  as,  with 
the  keenness  of  appreciation  peculiar  to  him,  he  re 
alized  it.  But  for  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  have 
failed  to  salute  that  passing  flag  then;  no,  not  even 
for  her.  He  did  not  feel  happy  about  his  action,  how 
ever,  but  he  could  think  of  nothing  adequate  to  say. 
He  could  not  explain  further  than  he  had  done,  and  it 
was  with  something  like  despair  that  he  turned  to  his 
companions  at  last.  Mary  Annan  was  tapping  her 
boot  with  her  whip,  an  angry  flush  upon  her  beautiful 

72 


PEYTON  SALUTES  THE  FLAG 

face.  Darrow  was  staring  in  great  embarrassment 
from  her  to  Peyton,  in  alternation. 

"Who  is  that?"  cried  Darrow,  glad  to  break  the  an 
noying  pause  at  last. 

He  pointed  down  toward  the  rear  of  the  procession, 
which  was  brought  up  by  a  great  concourse  of  men, 
women,  and  children,  blacks  as  well  as  whites. 

"Why,  I  declare,  it's  Tempe!"  exclaimed  Mary 
Annan,  in  vexation  and  dismay,  pointing  to  where  her 
little  sister,  yelling  like  a  young  Indian,  capered  down 
the  street  after  the  procession  arm  in  arm  with  a  very 
small  and  very  black  darky  girl.  No  one  would  have 
recognized  the  demure  little  maiden  of  the  morning. 
"The  idea  of  it!"  continued  her  sister.  "Will  you  get 
her  at  once?" 

Both  young  men  moved  forward. 

"No,  Darrow,"  said  Peyton  impulsively,  "you  may 
stay  with  Miss  Mary;  I  will  get  her.  She  is  displeased 
with  me,  not  with  you,"  he  added,  as  he  sprang  from 
his  horse  and  ran  after  the  crowd. 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  him,  Miss  Mary,"  said  Dar 
row;  "this  is  no  fault  of  his.  He  has  not  yet  caught 
our  point  of  view.  I  think  he  will  be  as  true  as  steel 
when  the  hour  comes." 

"He  does  not  need  any  support  in  my  presence, 
Mr.  Darrow,"  said  Mary,  with  unkind  coldness.  "I 
know  he  will  be  as  true  as  steel,  too,  but  I  wish  he 
hadn't  saluted  that  flag." 

"I  did  it  too,  you  remember,"  he  persisted,  wist 
ful  to  help  his  friend  in  spite  of  her  rebuff  of  his  first 
effort. 

73 


THE   SOUTHERNERS 

"Yes,  but  you  stopped  when  I  said  not." 

"Ah,  Miss  Mary,  you  know  there  is  nothing  I 
would  not  stop  for  you." 

She  wondered  with  dismay  if  he  were  about  to  con 
tinue  the  story  she  had  heard  all  day  from  the  other 
man. 

Meantime  Peyton  forced  his  way  through  the 
crowd  with  some  difficulty  and  finally  caught  Tempe 
in  his  arms. 

"Lemme  go !"  she  cried  shrilly.     "I  want  to  go  with 

Peggy." 

"Where  do  you  want  to  go?"  asked  Peyton,  lifting 
her  up. 

"I  want  to  go  to  see  the  soldiers  shoot  the  Nunited 
States." 

"Even  the  little  children,"  thought  Peyton  swiftly, 
as  he  firmly  carried  Tempe  to  the  rear  in  spite  of  her 
protestations,  "are  filled  with  the  idea.  Good  God, 
what's  going  to  happen?  You  won't  see  the  soldiers 
shoot  the  'Nunited  States/  Tempe,"  he  said  aloud,  as 
he  carried  her  across  the  street.  "Miss  Mary  wants 
you.  She  told  me  to  fetch  you  to  her." 

"Do  you  have  to  mind  sister  Mary,  too,  Mr.  Pey 
ton?"  queried  the  child,  looking  up  at  him  with  inter 
ested  curiosity  shining  in  her  black  eyes. 

"Everybody  has  to  mind  Miss  Mary,"  gravely. 

"Yes,  I  s'pose  so,"  said  Tempe,  resigning  herself  to 
his  will.  "Well,  you  can  take  me  over  to  her.  I 
s'pose  you  are  afraid  of  being  a  goat  if  you  don't  mind 
her."  ' 

"How's  that?     A  goat !"  amazedly. 

74 


PEYTON  SALUTES  THE  FLAG 

"Yes,  a  goat.  Sister  Mary  says  if  you  are  a  bad 
little  girl  an'  don't  mind,  when  you  go  to  heaven  you'll 
be  a  little  goat." 

"I  don't  understand." 

"Sister  Mary  will  'splain  it  when  you  get  over  to 
her,"  said  the  small  child,  and  as  the  two  stepped  be 
fore  her  older  sister,  she  burst  out,  "Didn't  you  say  if 
I  was  a  bad  girl,  an'  went  to  heaven  I'd  be  a  little  goat, 
sister  Mary?" 

"What?"  cried  the  girl. 

"An'  I  told  Mr.  Peyton  if  he  didn't  mind  you  he'd 
be  a  little  goat,  too,  an'  he  will,  won't  he?" 

"What  does  the  child  mean?"  asked  Peyton. 

"She  refers  to  the  parable  of  the  sheep  and  the 
goats,  you  know,"  laughed  Mary,  "she  has  it  mixed  a 
little,  that's  all." 

Alas,  Tempe's  theology  was  often  mixed,  in  which 
case,  however,  she  was  not  worse  than  older  and  wiser 
folk.  At  any  rate  the  strained  situation  broke  up  in  a 
general  laughter,  which  was  a  relief  to  every  one. 
Tempe  had  come  to  the  rescue  nobly,  and  as  a  reward 
was  mounted  on  the  crupper  of  Peyton's  horse,  leaving 
the  disconsolate  Peggy  twisting  on  alternate  legs  in 
the  dusty  road,  and  howling  vociferously  over  the 
separation.  The  three  friends  rode  down  toward  the 
wharf  where  the  battery  had  unlimbered,  and  listened 
to  a  salute  of  one  hundred  guns,  which,  by  the  direc 
tion  of  Governor  Moore,  amid  ringing  bells,  shrilling 
whistles,  and  frantic  cheering,  welcomed  the  birth  of 
the  first  State  of  the  new  Confederacy. 

One  wiser  than  the  other  two  saw  in  it  nothing  of 

75 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

happy  promise.  He  seemed  to  feel  that  each  crashing 
shot,  each  joyous  peal,  each  enthusiastic  cheer,  was 
another  note  in  the  death-knell  of  the  old  beloved 
South,  which  in  the  pride  of  its  manhood  and  the 
beauty  of  its  womanhood,  as  well  as  in  the  person 
of  its  slaves,  watched  and  participated  in  the  scene. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  jubilation  was 
over  and  the  military  marched  away. 

"Just  three  o'clock,"  said  Mary  Annan,  glancing  at 
the  timepiece  on  the  old  town  hall;  '"won't  you  come 
to  dinner  with  us  to-night?  You  have  just  come  from 
the  North,  and  father  will  be  so  glad  to  talk  with  you, 
Mr.  Peyton.  You  know  you  were  always  a  favorite  of 
his." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Miss  Mary,  but  I  have  not 
seen  my  own  people  since  morning,  and  this  is  my 
first  day  home.  They  will  be  wondering  what  has  be 
come  of  me.  I  will  be  in  to  see  your  father  very  soon, 
however/* 

"You,  then,  Mr.  Darrow?" 

"You  know  how  I  would  like  it,  Miss  Mary,  but  I 
think  I  will  ride  along  with  Boyd  a  little.  I  have  not 
seen  him  either  for  three  years,  and  we  have  lots  of 
things  to  talk  about.  You  know  our  friendship  was 
such  a  warm  one." 

"Yes,"  said  Peyton,  "it  was  indeed,  and  I  hope 
nothing  will  ever  come  between  us." 

"Nothing  ever  shall,"  said  the  other,  looking  at  his 
friend  over  Mary  Annan's  horse,  and  never  realizing 
what  Peyton's  quicker  mind  had  taken  in,  that  some 
thing  had  already  come  between  them,  something  that 
had  come  to  stay. 


CHAPTER  IX 


A 


RIVALS  YET  FRIENDS 

S  Peyton  and  Darrow  cantered  up  the 
road  a  little  silence  fell  between  them, 
which  the  older  man  was  the  first  to 
break.     With  characteristic  frankness 
he  asked  his  friend  a  direct  question. 
"Boyd,"  he  said  quietly,   "are  you 
in  love  with  Mary  Annan?" 
"I  am,"  was  the  prompt  reply. 
"Is  she  in  love  with  you?    Forgive 
me  this  question,  old  fellow,   but  we 
have  never  had  a  secret  between  us 
since  we  have  been  boys  together,  and 
I  don't  want  to  begin  now.    And  I  am 
as  ready  to  answer  as  to  ask  questions. 
Is  she  in  love  with  you?" 

"No,  I  think  not— not  yet,  that  is." 
In  any  other  man  Peyton  would  have 
resented  such  interrogations,  but  he  simply  could  not 
be  angry  with  his  friend,  especially  in  the  face  of  such 
open  frankness. 

"Boyd,"  said  the  other  impulsively,  "I  want  you  to 
know  that  if  I  can  help  it  she  never  shall  be." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Darrow?"  asked  Peyton,  in 
great  surprise,  yet  at  once  divining  the  reason. 

77 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"I  love  her  myself,"  resolutely. 

"And  does  she  love  you?" 

"Not  yet." 

"I  repeat  your  words,  Bob,"  cried  Peyton,  stopping 
his  horse  suddenly.  "If  I  can  help  it  she  never  shall." 

"Good!"  said  Darrow,  smiling  infectiously  at  the 
stern  face  of  the  other  man,  "  that  is  as  it  should  be. 
A  fair  field  and  no  favor,  and  may  the  better  man  win ! 
Come,  Boyd,  don't  look  so  glum  about  it.  We  both 
have  an  equal  chance.  She  is  promised  to  neither  of 
us.  If  anything,  you  have  the  advantage.  But  that's 
all  right.  I  mean  to  win  her  for  my  wife  if  I  can,  and 
you  for  yours.  What  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  is  this. 
You  won't  let  this  make  any  difference  in  our  friend 
ship,  will  you?" 

As  he  spoke  he  extended  his  hand  to  his  friend 
frankly  and  generously,  almost  pleadingly.  After  a 
momentary  hesitation  Peyton  accepted  the  proffered 
clasp,  and  the  two  men  shook  hands  warmly  over  this 
strange  compact,  a  compact  utterly  impossible  of  ful 
filment.  Both  of  them  were  too  inexperienced  to 
realize  that  yet,  and  the  rivalry  was  too  new  and  too 
sudden,  and  the  lady  too  undetermined,  to  have 
awakened  the  latent  possibilities,  nay,  certainties,  of 
antagonism  in  the  situation. 

"I  won't  take  any  advantage  of  you,"  said  Darrow 
magnanimously,  "and  you  won't  take  any  of  me,  I 
know." 

"No,  certainly  not,  and  I  am  quite  prepared  to 
concede  that  you  are  the  better  man  of  the  two, 
Bob." 

78 


RIVALS    YET    FRIENDS 

"I  am  not  willing  to  admit  that  at  all,  but  whether 
you  are  the  better  or  not  I  am  going  to  do  my  level 
best  in  an  honorable  way  to  win,  Boyd." 

"I  shall  do  the  same." 

"All  right.  Now,  we  have  settled  that.  Whew! 
It's  a  load  off  my  mind,  I  am  sure.  You  see  I  want 
Miss  Mary  and  I  want  you  too,  Peyton.  I  want  her 
love  and  I  want  your  friendship  as  well.  I  want 
everybody's,  and  I  suppose  you  feel  much  the  same 
way." 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  particular  about  everybody's," 
answered  the  more  reserved  Peyton,  "but  I  want  hers 
and  yours,  and  we  will  agree  that  whoever  may  win  the 
lady  the  other  man  may  at  least  retain  the  friend." 

"That's  a  bargain.  Now,  tell  me,  Peyton,  I  saw 
you  salute  the  flag,  and  'twas  a  natural  thing  for  you 
to  do.  If  I  had  been  alone  I  probably  would  not  have 
done  it,  but  I  sort  of  followed  your  example.  You 
know  I  have  been  accustomed  to  follow  your  lead  in 
most  things — even  to  falling  in  love  with  Miss  Mary; 
for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I  suppose  you  did  it  first?" 

"I  have  loved  her  ever  since  I  was  born,"  said  Pey 
ton  quietly. 

"Jove !"  said  the  other,  "so  have  I,  and  as  I  am  the 
older  I  have  beaten  you  there.  But  what  I  meant  to 
ask  you  was,  how  do  you  stand  with  reference  to  this 
secession  question?" 

"I  am  not  aware  that  I  am  bound  to  make,  or  give, 
a  decision  yet." 

"No,  not  immediately,  perhaps,  but  you  will  be  very 
soon.  The  talk  here  is  all  secession.  Governor 

79 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Moore  is  in  favor  of  it.  The  election  of  delegates  to 
the  convention  takes  place  on  the  twenty-fourth.  I 
was  up  in  Montgomery  last  week,  and  the  State  de 
sires  and  accepts  it,  overwhelmingly,  unless  in  the 
northern  tier  of  counties.  Here  it's  all  one  way.  It's 
a  foregone  conclusion  that  Alabama  will  follow  South 
Carolina's  lead  and  go  out  of  the  Union.  It  won't 
be  three  weeks  before  the  thing  will  be  done." 

"I  can't  believe  it." 

"It's  true,  nevertheless.  And  every  son  of  the  old 
State  will  have  to  make  a  decision  one  way  or  the 
other.  Now,  what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

"I  can't  tell  yet.  I  can't  believe  that  the  con 
tingency  will  arise." 

"But  if  it  does?" 

"When  it  does  1  shall  have  to  decide  in  accordance 
with  my  conscience.  Could  I  not  still  remain  an 
officer  of  the  United  States  Navy,  even  if  Alabama 
does  secede?  I  love  my  profession.  I  am  thoroughly 
satisfied  with  it.  I  do  not  wish  to  abandon  it.  Why 
could  I  not  still  keep  on  as  I  am?" 

"Because  the  United  States  Government  will  en 
deavor  to  prevent  secession  by  force." 

"Is  it  possible?" 

"It  is  certain.  We  in  the  South  have  known  it  ever 
since  Lincoln  was  elected.  They  will  deny  the  right 
of  secession  and  attempt  to  enforce  their  refusal,  and 
as  sure  as  there  is  a  God  above  us  you  and  every  South 
ern  man  will  have  to  say  whether  he  will  fight  for  or 
against  the  South,  God  bless  her !" 

"This  is  all  new  to  me,  Darrow,"  cried  Peyton.  "It 

80 


RIVALS    YET    FRIENDS 

comes  upon  me  with  great  surprise.  I  never  imagined 
such  a  thing  until  to-day.  You  see  we  sailors  do  not 
get  in  touch  with  popular  opinion  very  closely,  and  I 
have  but  recently  returned  from  a  long  cruise  in  for 
eign  waters.  Now  that  you  say  so,  I  begin  to  believe 
that  you  may  be  right.  There  is  a  spirit  of  resistance 
in  the  North,  of  compulsion,  too,  I  think,  or  there 
will  be." 

"I  am  glad  of  it,"  said  the  other,  "I  did  not  think 
they  had  spirit  to  do  anything.  A  nation  of  shop 
keepers,"  he  went  on  with  lofty  scorn,  "they  will  cut  a 
pretty  figure  down  here,  won't  they?  I  met  a  man 
from  Arkansas  the  other  day,  and  he  said  that  if  Abe 
Lincoln's  soldiers  set  foot  upon  the  sacred  soil  of 
Arkansas  they  would  fatten  the  catfish  from  the  Red 
River  to  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  with  their  carcasses." 

Darrow  laughed  harshly  as  he  told  the  tale. 

"Ugh !"  said  Peyton,  shrinking  from  the  brutality  of 
the  remark,  "how  beastly  that  is !" 

"Yes,  isn't  it?  I  wouldn't  have  said  it,  of  course.  I 
don't  indorse  it  at  all;  no  gentleman  could.  But  it 
shows  the  spirit  of  the  people." 

"Arkansas  isn't  Alabama,  though." 

"It's  much  the  same  thing.  We'll  make  it  inter 
esting  for  the  North  if  they'll  fight." 

"Darrow,"  said  Peyton  earnestly,  "don't  be  de 
ceived.  There  is  as  good  fighting  blood  north  of  the 
Potomac  as  south  of  it.  At  the  Academy  we  had 
cadets  from  every  section  of  the  country.  I  have 
been  well  thrashed  by  Northern  men,  and  I  have  made 
it  interesting  for  some  others,  and  I  want  to  tell  you, 

81 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

in  victory  or  defeat,  you  will  find  in  the  North  foemen 
worthy  of  anybody's  steel." 

"I  hope  so,"  answered  Darrow  composedly.  "Most 
of  our  people  expect  an  easy  conquest.  I  would  like 
to  win  out  after  a  struggle  that  would  be  worth  while." 

"I  do  not  believe  there  is  going  to  be  any  struggle, 
but  if  there  is  you  will  know  right  away  that  you  are 
in  for  a  hard  fight." 

"Well,  the  harder  the  better,"  cried  the  other,  throw 
ing  his  arm  out  in  a  bold,  free  gesture,  full  of  menace, 
"the  harder  the  better.  But,  Peyton,  surely  you 
wouldn't  hesitate  as  to  what  side  you  would  be  on? 
Why,  man,  see  how  I  love  you,  when  I  tell  you  this. 
Mary  Annan  would  not  look  at  you  a  moment  if  you 
raised  your  arm  against  the  South.  We  need  you. 
You  have  a  fine  headpiece  on  you,  old  fellow,  and  you 
have  been  trained  in  the  profession  of  arms.  You  are 
a  scientific  sailor.  We  want  you.  Think  of  the  op 
portunities  that  are  going  to  open  in  the  new  Con 
federacy  for  a  man  of  talent  and  fortune  and  family  and 
birth  and  with  the  prestige  of  your  naval  rank !  I  wish 
I  had  it." 

"Darrow,"  said  Peyton,  turning  sharply  upon  him, 
"whatever  my  course  may  be  I  shall  take  it  for  no 
other  reason  than  that  I  think  it  is  right." 

"That's  right,  Boyd,  and  that  will  bring  you  with 
us,  I  am  sure." 

"We  shall  see,"  said  Peyton  grimly,  "but  here  we 
are  at  our  gate.  Won't  you  come  in  and  take  a  bite 
with  us?  They  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

"No,  thank  you,  old  fellow,  some  other  day.  I 

82 


RIVALS    YET    FRIENDS 

want  to  get  back  to  town.  I  want  to  be  in  the  thick 
of  things.  The  town's  just  filled  with  excitement.  I 
suppose  they  will  have  another  jollification  to-night. 
Jove,  I  love  it !  I'd  rather  be  in  the  middle  of  a  fight, 
I  believe,  than  anywhere  else  on  earth." 

"Unless  it  were  with  Miss  Mary  Annan,"  said  Pey 
ton  quickly. 

"Oh,  of  course;  yet  this  is  treason,  I  know,  but 
sometimes  I  half  think  I'd  rather — well,  I'll  not  say  it. 
Good-by.  I'll  ride  out  in  the  morning  if  you  will 
wait  for  me,  and  we  will  have  a  long  talk  about  old 
times,  and  new  times,  together." 

"All  right,  I  shall  expect  you.     Good-by." 

As  Darrow  wheeled  his  horse  and  cantered  down 
the  road  Peyton  sat  still  in  his  saddle  before  the  gate 
and  followed  him  with  longing,  wistful  eyes. 

"Poor  old  Bob,"  he  thought,  "it  will  break  his  heart 
if  I  don't  go  with  the  State.  What's  that  he  said  about 
Mary  Annan?  She  wouldn't  look  at  me  if  I  fought 
against  the  South?  Pshaw!  He's  the  dreamer,  not 
I.  I  can't  believe  that  it  will  be  as  serious  as  all  that." 

Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  his  attempt  at  reassurance, 
it  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  he  rode  up  the  avenue 
toward  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X 


PEYTON  BEGS  FOR  TIME  TO  THINK  IT  OVER 


T 


HE  family  were  just  sitting  down  to 
dinner,  which  had  been  delayed  some 
what  on  account  of  the  exciting  events 
of  the  afternoon,  when  Peyton  entered 
the  house.  There  were  two  vacant 
places  at  the  table,  and  he  noticed  that 
Willis  was  absent. 

"Sit  down  just  as  you  are,  Boyd," 
said  his  mother,  as  he  paused  on  the 
threshold  of  the  dining-room;  "never 
mind  about  your  riding  clothes.  Din 
ner  is  just  served.  We  did  not  wait 
for  you." 

"We  never  wait  for  anybody,"  said 
his  father  promptly. 

"I  remember  well,  sir,  that  you 
don't,"  answered  his  son,  slipping  into  the  chair  next 
his  mother. 

"Old  habit  of  the  army.  Punctuality  the  first  duty 
of  a  soldier,  you  know.  I  expect  we  shall  have  to  ac 
quire  our  military  habits  over  again  presently — that  is, 
if  we  have  forgotten  them." 

"Which  I  am  sure  you  have  not,  father,"  said  Pink. 
"Isn't  Willis  back  yet?"  asked  Peyton. 

84 


PEYTON    BEGS    FOR   TIME 

"No,  not  yet,  but  I  reckon  he  will  be  along  pres 
ently,"  answered  the  colonel. 

"I  saw  him  riding  on  the  caisson  of  one  of  the  guns 
in  the  parade  downtown  a  while  ago,"  continued  his 
son.  "I  did  not  know  that  he  belonged  to  the  battery. 
When  did  he  join?" 

"Last  month,"  answered  his  mother,  "just  after  he 
was  eighteen." 

"He  looks  well,  mother,  in  his  soldier  clothes." 

"Yes,  doesn't  he?"  cried  Pink. 

"You  ought  to  think  so,"  answered  her  brother,  "he 
is  the  living  image  of  you,  Pink." 

"You  have  never  seen  me  in  a  soldier's  dress,  Boyd." 

"No,  and  I  don't  want  to,"  said  Boyd. 

"But  if  you  did,"  broke  in  Willis,  at  that  moment 
entering  the  room  in  his  natty  artillery  uniform,  "you 
would  see  a  winner  surely!  You  know  Pink  and  I 
are  just  of  a  size.  She's  tall,  and  I'm  small,  that  is, 
measured  by  the  average,  and  what  fits  me  would  fit 
her.  My  uniform  is  at  your  service,  Miss  Peyton,  any 
time  you  wish  it,"  he  continued,  dropping  into  a  vacant 
chair.  "Whew!"  he  cried,  wiping  his  brow,  "it  was 
fine !  The  roaring  of  the  guns  almost  made  me  think 
it  was  a  real  battle.  That  was  the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  one  hundred  guns  fired.  The  noise  felt  good, 
the  powder  smelt  good,  and  the  cheering  was  splendid ! 
I  enjoyed  the  whole  thing  immensely.  I  suppose  it's 
an  old  story  to  you,  Boyd." 

"Well,  no,"  answered  his  brother  deliberately;  "of 
course  I  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  powder  burned  in 
the  service  and  have  shot  a  good  many  guns,  but 

85 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

you  know  we  have  not  had  any  touch  of  real  war,  and 
I,  for  one,  hope  we  never  shall." 

"That's  right,  my  boy,"  said  the  colonel,  "it  is  a 
horrible  thing.  The  Mexican  War  didn't  amount  to 
much,  they  say,  but  it  was  enough  to  make  me  wish 
never  to  see,  much  less  participate  in,  another." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  father,"  interrupted  Willis,  who 
had  been  indulged  by  everybody  until  he  took  liberties 
with  his  father  which  no  one  else  ventured  upon,  "I 
have  no  doubt  you  are  correct,  sir,  as  you  always  are, 
but  whether  we  wish  it  or  not  there  is  going  to  be 
one,  I  am  sure." 

"I  fear  so,"  said  his  father  gravely. 

"Father,  I  cannot  believe  that  there  will  be  any 
trouble,"  burst  out  Boyd.  "Not  that  exactly,  for  I 
suppose  there  will  be  trouble,  but  I  do  not  believe  it 
will  come  to  open  war.  Why  should  it?  I  don't  see 
that  the  election  of  Lincoln  makes  any  material  differ 
ence  to  you — to  us — in  the  South." 

"You  don't !"  roared  his  father,  shaking  his  leonine 
head  at  his  son.  "Didn't  he  say  that  a  republic  could 
not  exist  half  slave  and  half  free?  What  does  that 
mean?" 

"Still,  father,  that  is  only  a  declaration,  as  he  sees  it, 
of  a  principle." 

"You  don't  endorse  it?"  cried  the  colonel. 

"I  am  not  discussing  my  endorsements  now,  sir," 
returned  his  son  striving  to  speak  temperately  and  re 
main  cool.  "I  only  mean  that  a  statement  of  a  prin 
ciple  doesn't  necessarily  carry  with  it  the  threat  of  en 
forcement,  or  even  a  demand  that  it  should  be  put 

86 


PEYTON    BEGS    FOR   TIME 

into  effect.  We  are  confronting  a  theory,  you 
know." 

"My  lad/'  returned  the  father  more  quietly,  "South 
Carolina's  action  has  turned  it  into  a  condition.  I 
hope  there  will  be  no  fighting,  but  I  fear  there  will 
be.  I  don't  hold,  as  many  Southern  men  do,  that 
the  Yankees  won't  fight.  I  have  seen  some  of  them 
fight  in  the  Mexican  campaign.  I  know  there  is  good 
stuff  in  them.  Not  that  I  compare  them  for  a  mo 
ment  with  our  Southern  chivalry,  but  if  they  get  waked 
up  to  it  they  will  fight." 

"Indeed  they  will,  father,  and  they  will  fight  hard, 
too." 

"The  harder  the  better,"  said  Willis  recklessly,  "and 
the  sooner  the  better,  too.  Hurrah  for  the  South,  say 
I!  We'll  make  a  new  republic  with  the  corner  stone 
that  the  black  man  is  to  be  forever  and  forever  a  slave. 
That's  logical,"  he  added,  under  his  breath;  fortunately 
no  one  heard  the  last  phrase. 

"Well,  the  decision  is  not  yet  upon  us,  father,"  urged 
Boyd. 

"No,  but  it  will  be.  If  I  know  the  temper  of  our 
people  they  will  be  quick  to  follow  South  Carolina's 
lead." 

"Do  you  think  so,  sir?" 

"I  do  indeed.    From  Virginia " 

"You  don't  think  that  Virginia  will  secede,  father?" 

"What!"  cried  Mrs.  Peyton,  joining  in  the  dis 
cussion  with  great  animation,  "do  you  think  my  old 
State  would  refrain  from  joining  her  sister  States? 
Never!  I,  for  one,  would  renounce  her  if  she  did!" 

87 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

The  gentle  Southern  matron's  eyes  flashed  fire  as 
she  spoke,  and  the  sudden  manifestation  of  intense 
feeling  coming  from  his  gentle  mother  astonished 
the  young  officer  more  than  anything  that  had  been 
said. 

"You  will  find,  Boyd,"  said  his  sister,  noting  his 
surprised  look,  "that  the  women  are  as  determined  as 
the  men." 

"More  so,  I  really  believe,"  said  her  twin  brother 
promptly. 

"I  believe  you,"  Boyd  assented.  "Why,  when  I 
picked  up  little  Tempe  Annan  out  of  the  crowd  near 
the  wharf  she  screamed  and  fought  me  like  a  little  wild 
cat,  saying  she  wanted  to  shoot  the  'Nunited  States.' ' 

"Good  for  the  child!  She  has  the  right  spirit," 
laughed  Willis. 

"Willis,"  said  his  father  reprovingly,  "I  wish  you 
would  look  on  the  matter  in  a  different  light.  It  is  a 
very  serious  thing  for  us  who  have  fought  under  the 
United  States  flag  to  turn  against  it." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Willis,  abashed  for  once  in  his  life, 
at  his  father's  stern  admonition. 

"I  suppose  you  will  find  it  so,  Boyd,"  continued  the 
colonel.  "You  are  fresher  in  the  service  than  I." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other  gravely,  "I  think  I 
should  find  it  very  hard  indeed." 

"Boyd,  you  don't  mean — "  cried  his  sister  fearfully. 

"I  don't  mean  anything  now,  Pink,"  interrupted  the 
young  man  hastily,  "it  is  a  subject  that  a  man  would 
have  to  think  over." 

"My  son,  my  son,"  exclaimed  his  mother,  "you 

88 


PEYTON    BEGS    FOR    TIME 

don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  would  hesitate  as  to 
where  your  duty  lay?" 

"Mother,  is  a  man's  duty  always  so  plain  to  him  that 
he  can  discern  it  without  a  moment's  reflection?" 

"Good  God,  sir !"  cried  his  father,  springing  to  his 
feet  and  putting  his  fist  heavily  down  upon  the  table, 
and  in  his  excitement  forgetful  of  the  presence  of  any 
one  but  his  son — a  high  index  to  the  depths  of  his 
feeling  indeed — "do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  a  son 
of  mine  can  hesitate  between  Abe  Lincoln's  cause  and 
that  of  his  own  State?  Why,  sir " 

"Father,"  cried  Boyd  desperately,  turning  very  pale, 
as  he  saw  the  issue  being  forced  upon  him,  "don't,  I 
beg  of  you,  speak  so  to  me  now !  I  have  not  decided 
anything.  I  swear  to  you  my  mind  has  never  been 
made  up.  This  has  all  come  upon  me  so  suddenly.  I 
never  dreamed  of  such  a  thing.  It's  a  shock.  Give 
me  time  to  accustom  myself  to  it.  I  want  to  think  it 
over." 

"Think  it  over,  sir?"  cried  the  colonel  wrathfully. 

"Stop,  Colonel  Peyton !"  said  his  wife  quickly,  "the 
boy  is  right.  Give  him  time.  He  has  not  been  in 
the  thick  of  this  for  months,  as  we  have  for  years 
even." 

"You  said  yourself,  sir,"  interrupted  Willis,  "that 
it  was  a  hard  thing  to  turn  your  back  against  the 
flag  under  which  you  had  fought." 

"I  am  sure  Boyd  will  come  around  all  right,"  said 
Pink  nervously.  "Mary  Annan  will  persuade  him." 

"Thank  you,  mother,  Willis,  Pink,  all.  I  shall  try 
to  do  right,  but  I  would  not  be  your  son,  father,  if  I 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

did  not  think  this  over.  My  adherence  would  not  be 
worth  anything  if  I  gave  it  lightly.  I  must  have  time. 
Give  me  a  little  time,  father.  No,  don't  look  at  me  in 
that  stern  and  forbidding  way,  sir.  I  only  ask  for  a 
breathing  space." 

"By  Jove,  my  son,  you  shall  have  it !  Perhaps  I  was 
harsh  at  the  moment.  I  really  forgot  the  circum 
stances  a  bit.  We  will  talk  it  over  at  our  leisure.  The 
whole  subject  shall  be  examined,  and  then  I  know  what 
you  will  do.  What,  Alabama  call  upon  her  sons  and 
the  Peytons  not  in  the  front  rank !  Never !" 

"Yes,  Boyd,  dear,  and  if  the  Peyton  part  of  you 
doesn't  respond  I  am  sure  that  no  child  of  my  family 
would  ever  be  found  wanting  at  the  call  of  duty;  you 
are  a  Boyd,  too,  remember,"  urged  his  mother. 

"I  sha'n't  forget  it,  I  am  sure,  mother,"  cried  Boyd, 
turning  to  her  gratefully.  "Thank  you,  father.  I 
think  I  will  go  to  my  room  now.  I  have  some  letters 
to  write,  and  I  want  a  little  quiet  thought  to  myself." 

"Did  you  see  Mary  Annan,  my  son?"  asked  his 
mother. 

"Yes,  mother." 

"Was  she— is  she " 

"She  is  very  kind,  mother,"  answered  Boyd,  his  face 
flushing  painfully.  He  shrank  from  these  public  dis 
cussion  of  his  love-affair,  but  there  seemed  to  be  no 
help  for  it.  "She  doesn't  love  me.  She  doesn't  love 
anybody  yet." 

"She  will,  I  am  sure,  when  she  knows  you  better," 
said  his  mother,  patting  his  hand  tenderly. 

"I  hope  so." 

90 


PEYTON    BEGS    FOR   TIME 

"She  won't,  though,"  interrupted  Pink,  "unless  you 
are  on  the  side  of  the  South." 

"Well,  that  is  where  he  will  be,  of  course,"  said  his 
father. 

As  Peyton  walked  out  of  the  room  with  his  heart 
heavy  at  the  contingencies  before  him,  and  closed  the 
door,  he  heard  Willis  remark : 

"What  he  says  is  all  right,  father,  and  if  I  know  him 
he'll  never  be  false  to  his  idea  of  duty ;  but  the  trouble 
is,  what  is  his  idea  of  duty?  That's  the  point  of  the 
argument." 

Willis  was  unusually  shrewd  for  a  boy  of  his  years. 


CHAPTER  XI 


PROBLEMS  TO  BE  FACED 


EYTON  went  to  his  room  with  his 
mind  in  a  perfect  turmoil.  Mary  An 
nan,  South  Carolina's  act  of  seces 
sion,  Darrow's  blunt  declaration  of 
rivalry,  the  United  States  flag,  and  the 
proposed  Southern  Confederacy  were 
mixed  together  in  hopeless  confusion. 
His  dreaming  days  were  over.  He 
sat  down  alone,  to  face  seriously  the 
great  problem  of  life,  which  came  to 
him  in  the  contrary  appeals  of  love 
and  duty.  Alas,  that  these  should  be 
so  often,  so  invariably,  at  odds !  What 
was  he  to  do  ?  What  was  his  duty,  by 
the  way  ?  At  present  he  could  not  say. 
Love,  duty — which?  He  could  not  consider  one  sub 
ject  apart  from  the  other,  yet  the  two  things  appeared 
to  be  entirely  unrelated — they  generally  are. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  perturbation  of  Peyton's 
family  was  scarcely  less  intense  than  his  own.  .  The 
colonel  was  a  man  who,  in  the  smaller  matters  of  life, 
was  absolutely  ruled  by  his  wife.  But  when  an 
emergency  arose  he  was  as  hard  and  determined  as 
iron.  Fortunately  for  their  domestic  peace,  he  and 

92 


PROBLEMS    TO    BE    FACED 

his  wife  were  in  entire  accord  on  the  questions  agitat 
ing  the  South,  slavery  and  secession. 

The  mind  of  Mrs.  Peyton  had  been  profoundly 
stirred  by  the  John  Brown — Harper's  Ferry  incident 
in  Virginia,  and,  as  was  often  the  case,  she  had  grown 
as  bitter  and  determined  as  her  husband.  She  saw 
that  if  Boyd  elected  to  hold  his  commission  the  re 
sult  of  his  decision  would  be  a  family  quarrel  of  in 
tense  bitterness,  and  she  realized  that  if  he  went  North 
he  would  cut  himself  off  entirely  from  family  recogni 
tion.  She  shuddered  to  think  of  the  situation  result 
ing  then. 

Pink  was  as  rabid  a  secessionist  as  Mary  Annan.  The 
younger  the  woman  the  more  violent  the  feeling, 
seemed  to  be  the  rule  in  that  day.  The  only  one  who 
really  looked  at  the  matter  with  more  or  less  indiffer 
ence  was  Willis.  His  own  course  was  perfectly  clear 
to  him,  but  he  had  inherited  a  strain  of  cool  shrewd 
ness  from  some  far-away  ancestor,  and  he  realized  the 
matter  better  even  than  his  father.  Besides,  being  the 
youngest  and  least  important  of  the  family,  he  counted 
but  for  little. 

The  possibility  that  his  son  would  not  at  once  tender 
his  services  to  Alabama  was  frightful  for  the  old 
colonel  to  contemplate.  The  idea  of  hesitation,  even, 
was  sufficiently  appalling  to  fill  his  mind  with  anxiety 
and  sorrow.  As  he  considered  the  subject  of  Boyd's 
probable  course  he  came  to  an  iron  resolution  in  case 
there  should  be  any  failure  on  the  young  man's  part  to 
do  what  his  father  expected  of  him.  He  would  wait. 
He  would  give  him  time.  He  would  use  what  skill 

93 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

and  forbearance  he  could,  ply  him  with  every  argu 
ment  that  occurred  to  him,  to  convince  his  son  and 
win  him  to  the  right  course,  but  in  the  end — 

The  colonel  was  a  fair  man  according  to  his  lights. 
He  admitted  that  there  was  some  justice  in  his  son's 
position.  It  was  a  new  thing  to  the  young  sailor,  this 
approaching  crisis,  although  an  old  story  by  this  time 
to  the  colonel  and  his  friends.  He  hoped  and  prayed 
that  it  would  come  all  right.  Yes,  he  really  prayed. 
He  was  a  God-fearing  man,  in  his  way,  and  he  poured 
his  soul  out  in  earnest  petition  to  his  Maker  that  his 
son  might  see  with  his  eyes  and  walk  in  his  path — in 
the  way  he  firmly  and  confidently  believed  to  be  not 
merely  the  right  but  the  only  way,  as  well.  In  those 
petitions  his  wife  joined.  It  shows  the  strength  of 
their  convictions,  the  certainty  of  their  conclusions, 
that  neither  thought  to  pray  for  light  to  direct  them  in 
their  own  course  in  the  crisis.  What  that  should  be 
they  were  well  assured,  and  neither  hesitated  nor 
doubted  for  a  moment.  They  would  go  with  the 
South  and  Alabama  to  the  last  vestige  of  their  being. 
What  need  to  pray  about  that?  In  the  sincerity  of 
their  belief  that  was  the  only  possible  course  for  them, 
for  any  Southern  man  or  woman. 

Mary  Annan  and  Bob  Darrow,  too,  had  their  mo 
ments  of  serious  thought.  The  girl  sat  alone  in  her 
room  after  dinner  that  evening  and  considered  the 
situation.  She  knew  not  whether  to  admire  the  more 
Darrow's  ready  compliance  with  her  request  not  to 
salute  the  flag  or  Peyton's  unbending  resolution  to 
do  it.  She  knew  not  whether  she  liked  the  one  bet- 

94 


PROBLEMS    TO    BE    FACED 

ter  than  the  other  or  whether  she  held  them  both 
equally  lightly.  Of  one  thing  she  was  very  certain. 
She  would  never  give  her  heart  and  hand,  under 
any  circumstances,  or  for  any  reason,  to  any  man 
who  was  not  heart  and  soul  for  the  South  and 
secession. 

How  handsome  Bob  Darrow  was,  her  thoughts  ran 
on.  What  a  splendid  soldier  he  would  make.  The 
South  was  filled  with  such  men.  Where  was  there  an 
other  country,  or  nation,  which  could  produce  such? 
Where  was  the  army  that  could  stand  against  such  as 
they?  Knight  and  gentleman,  typical  of  the  chivalry 
of  the  land  she  loved.  No,  she  could  never  love  any 
man  whose  heart  and  soul  were  not  with  the  South, 
certainly  not  Peyton. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  murmured  at  last,  "that  Boyd 
Peyton  won't  be  with  us.  Yet  he  could  not  refuse. 
There  is  no  traitor  blood  in  him.  But — oh,  I'm 
afraid — afraid.  Well,  aside  from  the  cause  I  don't 
care.  The  South  wants  only  willing  advocates." 

Why  was  it  then  that  she  put  her  head  down  upon 
her  hands  as  she  knelt  by  her  bedside  and  sobbed  and 
sobbed  and  sobbed?  Ah,  strange  the  mystery  that  lies 
within  a  woman's  heart ! 

As  for  Darrow  he  mingled  in  the  thick  of  the  en 
thusiastic  multitude  that  night.  He  entered  with  all 
the  spirit  of  his  nature  in  the  reckless  abandon  to  jol 
lity  of  the  passing  moments.  But  when  he  was  alone, 
striving  to  think  of  Mary  Annan,  Peyton's  face  with 
that  tight  touch  of  grimness  which  he  never  remem 
bered  to  have  seen  before,  would  obtrude  itself.  It 

95 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

had  been  plain  sailing  before  his  return  to  the  scene 
of  action,  but  now  it  seemed  strangely  different. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  murmured,  "that  I  cannot  per 
suade  him.  He  has  been  so  long  in  the  North  that  the 
leaven's  got  in  him.  And  it  is  working.  Yet,  if  he 
goes,  that  will  give  me  a  free  field.  Oh,  but  I  don't 
want  it  that  way.  I  want  him  for  the  South,  and  her 
for  me." 

He  was  a  generous,  noble-hearted  youth,  yet  in 
spite  of  his  assertion,  his  soul  leaped  at  the  thought  of 
Peyton's  throwing  away  his  chance  with  Mary  Annan, 
by  remaining  true  to  the  United  States  Government. 

"If  he  does,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  shall  have  her  any 
way.  Not  all  the  States  and  all  the  men  north  of 
Mason  and  Dixon's  line  can  take  her  from  me." 

Like  most  Southerners  of  that  day  he  underesti 
mated  the  strength  of  his  antagonists,  personal  and 
national.  He  had  realized  this  dimly  in  spite  of  his 
doughty  words,  and  he  was  not  much  happier  than 
the  others  after  all. 


BOOK   II 
THE    STORM    BREAKS 


CHAPTER    XII 


THE  INDECISION   OF  PEYTON 


HE  passage  of  that  act  of  secession  in 
Charleston,    South    Carolina,    marked 
the  beginning  of  trouble  for  all  the 
m.  persons  concerned  in  this  story.    Alas! 

it  marked  the  beginning  of  trouble  for 
a  great  many  persons  concerned  in  a 
great  many  stories  which  shall  never 
be  told. 

Peyton  had  been  entirely  honest  in 
his  conversation  with  his  father.  He 
had  not  made  up  his  mind,  and  in  the 
intervening  days  he  tried  hard  to  do 
so.  Making  up  his  mind  finally  and 
definitely  upon  any  subject  except 
Mary  Annan  had  been  rather  a  diffi 
cult  task  to  him  heretofore.  Like  many  spiritual, 
sensitive,  highly  organized  natures  he  lacked  initiative 
and  determination,  and  much  preferred  to  have  things 
happen  as  they  would  rather  than  constrain  them. 
But  this  was  a  question  which  could  not  be  put  by. 

There  were  long  discussions  between  father  and  son 
concerning  the  rights  and  wrongs  of  the  situation. 
Colonel  Peyton  was  the  extremest  type  of  Southern 
man.  He  believed  that  slavery  was  a  divine  institu 
tion  warranted  by  Biblical  teaching,  and  sanctioned 

99 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

alike  by  morality  and  expediency.  Looking  upon  the 
negroes  as  an  inferior  race,  he  would  hear  of  no  con 
demnation  of  the  system  by  which  they  were  held. 
In  his  own  case  his  slaves  were  happy  and  contented. 
His  ownership  and  rule  were  mild  and  benevolent,  and 
his  people  adored  him.  This  was  the  case  with  most 
of  the  slave-owners  he  knew,  and  he  wilfully,  or  per 
haps  unconsciously,  blinded  himself  to  any  other  feat 
ure  of  it. 

Aside  from  any  consideration  of  the  slave  question, 
his  State  was  easily  paramount  to  the  United  States 
or  any  other  of  them  in  his  affections,  and  he  was  un 
able  to  understand  how  there  could  be  any  hesitation 
on  the  part  of  his  son  as  to  his  duty.  He  plied  him 
with  every  argument  at  his  command,  while,  by  the 
most  violent  efforts,  he  barely  succeeded  in  preserving 
some  measure  of  his  self-control  in  the  daily  discus 
sions. 

At  first  Boyd  thought  to  break  away  from  these  re 
curring  periods  of  heated  debate  and  solace  himself 
in  the  society  of  the  woman  he  loved.  But  here  again 
exactly  the  same  state  of  affairs  supervened.  If  pos 
sible  Mary  Annan  was  more  fierce  and  determined  in 
her  sentiments  than  his  father.  She  was  completely 
swept  away  by  the  situation.  He  found  that  whereas 
she  had  been  willing  before  to  allow  him  to  pour  his 
tale  of  affection  in  her  listening  ears,  and  had  even 
played  at  love-making  herself,  now  she  had  but  one 
topic  of  conversation,  and  he  was  perforce  compelled 
to  confine  himself  to  the  discussion  of  that  or  remain 
silent.  The  girl's  resolution  to  think  of  and  talk  of 

IOQ 


THE    INDECISION    OF    PEYTON 

nothing  else  mastered  his  futile  efforts  to  substitute 
other  subjects  for  discussion,  especially  as  his  own  mind 
was  full  of  the  same  topic. 

When  he  was  with  neither  father  nor  sweetheart  and 
resorted  to  the  society  of  Darrow  and  the  young  men 
of  his  old-time  acquaintance  he  found  that  no  other 
subject  for  conversation  could  be  started  and  main 
tained  with  them  either.  In  truth,  there  was  reason 
for  all  this  concentration  of  mind  upon  one  idea,  this 
social  obsession  upon  secession.  As  he  entered  more 
and  more  into  the  spirit  of  his  environment  he  saw 
more  and  more  clearly  the  irreconcilable  nature  of  the 
opinions  held  by  North  and  South  upon  the  question 
of  slavery. 

The  right  of  a  State  to  secede  from  the  General 
Government  had  never  been  tested.  Threats  had  been 
freely  indulged  in  from  time  to  time  in  periods  of 
stress,  in  moments  of  exigency,  by  both  Northern  and 
Southern  States,  John  Hancock  and  Massachusetts 
leading  off,  but  they  had  not  been  seriously  regarded 
hitherto  in  our  national  history — except  in  one  in 
stance,  possibly — and  the  action  of  South  Carolina, 
which  was,  after  all,  inevitable,  came  with  the  force  of 
a  sudden  surprise. 

Such  was  the  contagion  of  the  idea,  however,  that 
nearly  every  slave-owning  State  immediately  fell  in 
line.  Although  they  perhaps  did  not  realize  it,  they 
were  all  ripe  for  secession.  South  Carolina  was  no 
more  determined  than  the  rest.  She  had  merely  an 
ticipated  them,  that  was  all.  The  idea  was  communi 
cated  from  man  to  man  in  one  of  those  sudden  waves 

101 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

of  popular  emotion  and  feeling  which  abrogated  all 
distinctions,  abolished  all  differences,  and  united  the 
majority  of  the  people  upon  the  great  question.  Op 
position  was  drowned  by  a  steadily  increasing  current 
of  vociferous  popular  opinion. 

There  were  many  like  Judge  Annan,  for  instance, 
who  thought  secession  unnecessary  on  account  of  Lin 
coln's  election;  who  deplored  it,  fought  against  it, 
argued  against  it  with  all  their  powers,  but  who,  it 
was  certain,  would  eventually  accept  it  with  all  its 
consequences,  in  case,  or  when,  it  should  be  brought 
about. 

The  warlike  spirit  of  the  South  evidenced  itself  in 
the  upspringing,  in  every  city  or  village,  of  new  mili 
tary  companies;  and  the  young  men  who  had  seen 
nothing  of  its  horrors,  who  knew  nothing  of  its 
miseries  by  experience,  were  clamorous  for  war.  The 
Southerners  affected  to  hold  the  men  of  the  North  in 
great  contempt,  but  deep  down  in  their  secret  hearts 
they  expected  that  they  would  not  be  permitted  to 
establish  their  Southern  Confederacy  on  the  corner 
stone  of  slavery  without  strenuous  efforts  being  made 
by  the  North  to  prevent  it.  It  was  known  to  the  lead 
ers,  without  doubt,  that  the  right  of  secession  would 
be  denied  and  the  attempted  act  would  be  resisted. 
War  actually  began  when  the  wires  flashed  the  news 
across  the  continent  and  around  the  world  that  South 
Carolina  had  severed  the  bonds  that  knit  her  to  her 
sister  commonwealths  in  the  great  nation  known  as 
the  United  States. 

Entertainments  of  every  sort  were  more  or  less 
102 


THE    INDECISION    OF    PEYTON 

given  up.  The  papers  were  filled  with  announcements 
of  the  new  military  organizations  in  which  the  privilege 
of  enlistment  was  eagerly  sought.  Uniforms  were 
seen  everywhere  upon  the  streets,  and  the  music  of 
fife  and  drum  stirred  the  martial  ardor  of  the  citizens. 
In  the  midst  of  all  the  excitement  came  the  election  of 
deputies  to  the  conventions  which  were  held  in  Ala 
bama  and  adjoining  States  with  the  avowed  object 
of  following  South  Carolina's  action  in  carrying  the 
several  States  out  of  the  Union.  Although  vigorous 
protests  were  made  by  some  eminent  men,  like  Alex 
ander  H.  Stephens,  of  Georgia,  the  result  in  every 
case  was  a  foregone  conclusion. 

The  question  of  slavery,  which,  while  it  was  obscured 
by  the  question  of  secession,  was  really  the  basic  con 
sideration,  since  it  was  slavery  which  brought  about 
the  desire  for  secession,  was  almost  as  fiercely  debated, 
but  with  not  nearly  so  much  unanimity.  The  South 
erners  were  by  no  means  agreed  on  that  subject.  And 
it  was  a  pity  that  this  diversity  of  opinion  was  not  v 
realized  in  the  North.  Here  again  Judge  Annan', 
differed  from  many  of  his  neighbors.  He,  in  common 
with  such  men  as  Henry  A.  Wise,  the  governor  of 
Virginia,  deplored  the  existence  of  slavery,  and  with 
others  had  been  quietly  working  for  some  time  look 
ing  toward  its  abolition.  They  had  come  to  regard 
slavery  as  a  curse  and  blot  upon  the  fair  name  of  the 
South,  as  well  as  a  menace  to  any  industrial  supremacy, 
rather  than  a  divinely  ordered  institution,  a  blessing. 
Left  to  themselves,  these  men  would  have  brought 
about  a  gradual  abolition  of  slavery  upon  equitable 

103 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

grounds,  which  would  have  been  acceptable  to  the 
whole  nation. 

The  moral  consciousness  of  the  South,  generally 
speaking,  was  entirely  at  rest  on  the  question,  how 
ever.  The  slaveholding  statesmen  were  as  sincere  and 
as  thoroughly  convinced  that  they  were  right  as  the 
most  violent  abolitionist  was  to  the  contrary,  and  to 
convince  them  otherwise  would  require  time,  tact,  and 
patience,  forces  which  have  often  before  moved  a 
world.  Such  an  industrial  system  as  slavery  could  not 
be  uprooted  suddenly  without  so  seriously  disturb 
ing  existing  economic  conditions  as  to  produce  revolu 
tion.  The  efforts  of  the  Southern  abolitionists — who 
would  naturally  resent  the  term — were  in  the  present 
excitement  fruitless.  They  found  themselves  hope 
lessly  outclassed,  and  were  compelled  to  sink  the  ques 
tion  of  slavery  in  a  choice  between  their  State  and 
the  United  States.  Their  choice  in  most  instances  was 
inevitable. 

Attacked,  therefore,  by  family,  friends,  and  sweet 
heart,  Peyton  actually  gradually  persuaded  himself 
that  it  was  not  his  duty  to  remain  in  the  United  States 
service.  Yet  in  spite  of  every  inclination  one  thing 
fought  against  that  conclusion.  His  duty  to  his  coun 
try,  and  a  conviction  that  the  bounds  of  his  country 
were  wider  than  those  of  any  State,  that  the  nation 
was  greater  than  all  of  them. 

During  the  most  impressionable  period  of  his  life 
he  had  been  removed  from  the  influences  which  had 
moulded  the  characters  of  those  about  him.  He  had 
been  thrown  much  in  the  society  of  a  certain  Captain 

104 


THE    INDECISION    OF    PEYTON 

David  Farragut,  himself  a  Southern  man,  a  native  of 
the  neighboring  State  of  Tennessee,  and  whose  child 
hood  home  had  been  in  Louisiana.  The  impress  that 
had  been  made  on  Peyton's  developing  character  while 
in  this  formative  state  by  his  surroundings  and 
especially  by  the  clear-headed,  common  sense,  sound 
judgment  and  lofty  patriotism  of  this  elderly  naval 
officer,  who  had  lived  a  long  life  in  the  service  with 
but  little  opportunity  for  distinction,  was  of  the  very 
deepest  quality.  He  knew  that  with  Captain  Farragut 
— or  to  give  him  his  courtesy  title,  Commodore  Far 
ragut — there  was  nothing  above  the  United  States, 
and  that  loyalty  to  the  General  Government,  or  as  he 
expressed  it,  to  the  flag,  was  the  paramount  duty  of 
every  officer  and  sailor. 

Still  the  old  captain  was  far  away.  The  force  of  his 
arguments  was  naturally  greatly  diminished  by  dis 
tance  and  absence.  Peyton  wavered  and  slowly  ap 
proached  the  point  of  handing  in  his  resignation. 
Why  not?  He  had  been  born  in  Alabama.  All  his 
family,  his  friends,  the  woman  he  hoped  to  make  his 
wife,  lived  there.  All  his  affections,  his  dreams,  his 
hopes,  were  centred  there.  If  war  came — and  he  was 
at  last  convinced  against  his  will  that  it  would  come, 
and  the  conviction  came  in  the  end  because  he  was  one 
of  the  few  Southern  men  who  knew  the  quality  of  the 
North,  which  most  of  his  countrymen,  publicly,  at 
least,  derided — he  would  be  compelled  to  fight  against 
those  he  loved,  and  who  loved  him.  Living  in  a  sea 
board  town,  it  was  quite  possible  that  he  might  some 
day  be  compelled  to  turn  the  guns  of  a  warship  upon 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

this  very  city,  upon  his  own  people,  upon  his  own 
home.  An  awful  thought  that,  a  terrible  argument. 

But  there  was  another  powerful  incentive.  The  very 
moment  that  he  announced  his  determination  to  con 
tinue  in  the  United  States  service  and  his  refusal  to 
resign  he  would  be  a  man  marked  for  hatred  and  con 
tempt.  Whereas  he  was  now  courted,  flattered,  and 
loved  by  his  friends,  neighbors,  and  acquaintances, 
then  he  would  be  execrated  and  despised.  Should  he 
exchange  the  approval  of  this  community  of  friends 
for  the  careless  approbation  of  comparative  strangers? 
Should  he  deliberately  abandon  the  prospect  of  win 
ning  the  woman  he  loved  for  his  wife — and  she  became 
more  precious  to  him  with  every  illusive  moment  of 
her  society  she  vouchsafed  to  him — in  order  that  he 
might  continue  in  the  United  States  service? 

Should  he  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  his  father, 
honor  and  preferment  awaited  him.  His  military  and 
naval  training  would  be  of  great  value  to  the  South. 
To  the  North  he  would  be  only  one  of  a  number  of 
enterprising  young  officers. 

In  short,  nearly  everything  urged  him  to  a  decision 
in  conformity  with  the  wishes  of  his  people,  and  the 
arguments  that  were  brought  to  bear  upon  him  were  so 
powerful  that  they  nearly  decided  him — nearly,  but  not 
quite.  Again  and  again  it  was  on  his  lips  to  announce 
that  decision,  yet  something  held  him  back.  For  the 
life  of  him  he  could  not  tell  exactly  what  it  was,  yet  he 
could  not  contemplate  with  equanimity  a  position  of 
opposition  to  that  flag  to  which  he  had  given  himself 
with  the  passionate  devotion  of  his  nature.  Many 

106 


THE    INDECISION    OF    PEYTON 

men  as  brave,  as  true,  as  devoted  as  he  was,  could  do 
that,  would  do  it.  Do  it  with  heartaches,  do  it  with 
anguish,  but  still  do  it  in  accordance  with  what  they  felt 
to  be  a«higher  duty.  Well,  he  did  not  reproach  them, 
but  could  he  do  it?  Was  there  a  higher  duty?  That 
was  the  question.  Like  Banquo's  issue,  it  would  not 
down. 

He  grew  haggard  and  pale  under  the  stress  and 
strain  of  the  outward  and  inward  debate  with  men, 
conscience,  and  the  woman.  He  had  time  for  no  day 
dreams  now.  Under  the  iron  pressure  in  the  terrible 
struggle,  which  tore  the  very  depths  of  his  being,  he 
began  to  lose  some  of  the  indifference,  the  hesi 
tation,  the  timidity,  which  had  characterized  him  in 
the  presence  of  the  world.  He  began  to  stiffen  and  to 
strengthen. 

Watching  him  painfully  were  those  who  loved  him, 
his  father,  his  mother,  his  brother  and  sister,  aye,  his 
sweetheart,  Mary  Annan,  for  she  too  began  to  come 
within  the  category.  Although  she  neither  knew  it 
nor  admitted  it,  it  needed  but  a  touch  apparently  to  re 
veal  to  her  and  to  him  the  depths  of  affection  which  she 
was  beginning  to  entertain  for  him.  That  mighty 
struggle  going  on  within  his  breast,  which  she  dimly 
realized  from  the  outward  manifestations  of  it  in  the 
change  in  his  character,  brought  them  nearer  together. 
She  watched  him  with  perhaps  the  same  feeling  of 
terrified  interest  with  which  women  of  old,  otherwise 
dainty  and  refined  and  not  devoid  of  the  gentle  sym 
pathy  we  love  because  we  lack  it,  watched  the  gladi 
ators  in  the  ancient  Roman  arena.  She  sometimes 

107 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

thought  fatuously  that  she  was  the  guerdon  of  that 
struggle,  having  not  yet  gone  deep  enough  in  her  own 
heart  or  the  heart  of  the  world,  to  realize  that  she 
was  but  an  incident,  the  most  compelling,  the  most 
powerful,  but,  after  all,  only  a  circumstance  in  the  con 
flict  raging  in  his  personality. 

To  do,  or  not  to  do,  and  which  was  the  duty  to  be 
done,  which  to  be  left  undone,  for  he  began  to  see  that, 
as  in  every  great  crisis  or  question,  there  were  duty 
calls  from  both  sides  of  it — that  was  his  problem. 
Sometimes  in  her  presence  he  sat  in  perfect  silence  for 
long  moments.  These  periods  were  not  filled  with  the 
dreams  of  old,  and  when  she  timidly  broke  them  by 
asking  the  subject  of  his  thoughts  he  would  reveal 
the  mighty  turmoil  by  some  brief  incisive  comment 
which  taught  her,  as  nothing  else  could,  the  fierce 
ness  of  the  struggle.  She  prayed,  as  thousands  of 
others  in  both  North  and  South  did  in  those  trying 
days,  that  the  decision  might  be  for  her  and  hers,  and 
awaited  it  with  a  hope  which  grew  stronger  every  day. 

The  moral  character  of  the  young  man  had  not 
greatly  developed  hitherto,  his  characteristics  were  yet 
more  or  less  negative,  because  no  strain  had  been 
brought  upon  him,  it  was  yet  to  be  determined  how 
he  would  stand  the  tremendous  pressure.  Whether 
his  instinctive  sense  of  loyalty  to  the  flag  under  which 
he  had  been  educated,  to  which  he  had  pledged  him 
self,  which  he  had  sworn  to  defend,  would  be  strong 
enough  to  enable  him  to  counter  the  other  pleas  or 
not,  he  could  not  tell.  But  he  struggled  on. 

Bob  Darrow,  too,  grew  more  unhappy.  He  made 
108 


THE    INDECISION    OF    PEYTON 

little  progress  in  his  love-affairs,  although,  so  far  as  he 
could  see,  neither  did  Peyton.  Mary  Annan  was  kind 
to  him,  too  kind.  She  distributed  her  favors  between 
the  two  men  impartially.  By  a  tacit  agreement  they 
had  avoided  clashing  and  dispute  about  her.  Each 
contrived  as  he  could  to  see  her  alone,  but  when 
chance  brought  them  together  there  was  no  unseemly 
rivalry.  Indeed,  the  discussions  were  all  upon  the 
one  great  question.  Barrow's  position  was  unequivo 
cal.  He  was  heart  and  soul  for  the  South,  but,  strange 
to  say,  he  was  almost  the  quietest  man  of  the  social 
circle  in  which  the  young  men  moved.  The  leaven 
of  love  and  the  effect  of  the  great  crisis  were  develop 
ing  his  nature  also.  Where  he  had  before  given  his 
judgment  with  a  laugh  and  without  thought  he  became 
reserved  and  contemplative.  Deliberation  appeared 
in  his  manner,  a  little  hesitancy  or  reluctance,  which, 
as  it  appeared  to  be  accompanied  by  no  loss  of  con 
fidence  in  any  emergency,  the  girl  found  very  attrac 
tive.  Indeed,  had  Peyton  been  out  of  the  way  she 
certainly  would  have  fallen  in  love  with  Darrow.  And 
it  might  be,  before  she  realized  the  situation,  that 
something  would  turn  the  scales  in  his  favor.  So  they 
were  all  in  a  state  of  feverish  excitement,  and  the  days 
passed  in  alternations  of  anxiety  and  elation. 

Even  little  Tempe  had  a  hard  time  of  it,  for  never  in 
her  small  life  had  she  found  her  sister  so  distrait,  so 
anxious,  so  quick  to  reprove  a  fault,  so  heedless  of  her 
childish  ailments  and  complaints.  Christmas  came 
and  went  without  the  usual  jollity  and  merrymaking. 
It  was  useless  to  cry  "Peace,  peace,"  when  there  was 

109 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

no  peace  but  war;  futile  to  urge  "good-will  toward 
men,"  when  that,  between  the  two  sections,  was  al 
ready  a  thing  of  the  past.  Matters  moved  rapidly  in 
Alabama,  and  the  crisis  came  on  the  night  of  Janu 
ary  3,  1 86 1.  This  happened  to  be  the  birthday  of 
Mary  Annan.  Her  father,  the  old  Judge,  in  celebra 
tion  of  it,  gave  a  dinner-party  at  his  home  at  Annan- 
dale,  late  in  the  afternoon,  to  which  were  bidden  sev 
eral  of  his  oldest  and  most  intimate  friends,  as  well 
as  a  few  of  the  younger  people,  including  Darrow  and 
Peyton,  and  his  sister,  Miss  Pinkie.  Willis,  much  to 
his  disgust,  was  forced  to  content  himself  with  an 
invitation  to  the  dancing-party  which  was  to  follow 
the  dinner. 


CHAPTER   XIII 


A  DINNER  AND  A  DISCUSSION 


A 


LTHOUGH  dinner  was  served  at  An- 
nandale  House  a  little  after  three 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  in  accordance 
with  the  invariable  Southern  custom, 
the  shutters  were  closed,  the  blinds 
were  drawn  beneath  the  heavy  lambre 
quins,  and  the  darkened  dining  room 
was  lighted  by  numbers  of  wax  can 
dles  in  old-fashioned  gilt  candelabra, 
from  whose  branching  arms  depended 
many  glass  prisms,  which  tinkled  soft 
ly  in  the  vibration  caused  by  the  serv 
ing  of  the  dinner. 

The  table  was  loaded  with  massive 
plate  which  had  come  down  from  co 
lonial  days  and  even  antecedent  years  in  older  coun 
tries,  and  it  groaned  with  that  profusion  of  viands 
which  was  characteristic  of  Southern  hospitality. 

At  the  head  of  the  board,  opposite  Judge  Annan, 
the  host,  a  huge  turkey  stuffed  with  chestnuts  and 
done  to  a  turn,  reared  itself  loftily  upon  its  vantage 
ground  of  a  capacious  silver  platter  which  in  former 
days  and  older  countries  had  often  carried  the  lordly 
boar's  head  of  the  Christmas  tide.  At  the  other  end 
of  the  table,  opposite  Madam  Peyton,  who,  displacing 

in 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Mary  to  the  girl's  great  relief,  played  hostess  for  the 
occasion,  on  another  charger  stood  a  small  fat  pig, 
roasted  whole,  a  bright  red  apple  within  its  mouth, 
its  brown  and  crusty  sides  dotted  with  specks  of 
clover  and  pepper,  the  tiny  globules  giving  forth  a 
spicy  aroma  as  appetizing  as  it  was  fragrant.  Cer 
tainly  the  princess  among  cooks  was  the  old  Southern 
mammy — semi-barbaric  race  bringing  forth  the  natu 
ral  chef,  last  product  of  modern  civilization! 

These  pieces  de  resistance  of  the  menu  were  flanked 
by  dishes  of  rice  so  deftly  cooked  that  each  particular 
kernel  preserved  its  identity  in  the  mass,  bowls  of 
candied  yams  swimming  in  delicious  golden  syrup,  and 
other  vegetables  indigenous  to  the  South.  The  North 
contributed  the  crisp  celery,  while  from  ships  in  the 
port,  golden  macaroni  was  the  offering  of  Italy  to  the 
profusion  and  luxuriance  of  the  board.  In  tall  old 
decanters  wine  of  rare  vintage  and  rich  bouquet  stood 
convenient  at  every  hand.  The  liveried  black  ser 
vants  flitted  about  deeply  attentive  to  the  wants  of  the 
guests  and  zealous  in  upholding  the  credit  of  their 
beloved  master's  prodigal  hospitality. 

On  the  right  hand  of  her  father,  as  being  the  guest 
of  honor,  to  celebrate  whose  birthday  the  dinner  was 
given,  sat  his  daughter.  Her  slender  neck  and 
shoulders  rose  from  a  perfect  billow  of  flounces  of  ex 
quisite  point  lace,  which  covered  the  airy  tulle  fabric 
of  her  corsage,  the  ivory  tints  of  her  skin  making  sweet 
contrast  to  the  sheer  whiteness  of  her  dress.  She  had 
striven  to  control  her  rebellious  curls,  and  an  attempt 
had  been  made  to  part  her  hair  in  the  middle  and  draw 

112 


A    DINNER   AND    A   DISCUSSION 

it  down  smoothly  around  her  brows  and  over  her  ears, 
gathering  it  in  the  back  in  a  handful  of  curls  in  which 
she  had  thrust  a  single  belated  red  rose.  But  the 
wave  that  was  in  her  hair  would  show  itself,  and  the 
thick  brown  locks,  resisting  control,  rippled  softly 
across  her  temples.  She  wore  no  jewels,  although  her 
mother's  casket  in  the  chamber  above  was  filled  with 
beautiful  gems. 

Opposite  Mary  was  her  friend  and  companion  Pinkie 
Peyton.  Next  to  Mary,  Boyd  Peyton  was  lucky 
enough  to  find  himself,  and  opposite  him,  next  to  his 
sister,  sat  Darrow.  On  either  side  of  Madam  Peyton, 
at  the  other  end,  sat  the  Hon.  Andrew  Barry  Moore, 
the  governor  of  Alabama,  and  Colonel  Jones  Withers, 
the  mayor  of  Mobile.  The  governor,  who  was  an  old 
friend  of  Judge  Annan,  had  come  especially  from 
Montgomery,  the  State  capital,  to  honor  his  daughter. 
The  rest  of  the  company — which  included  Colonel  Pey 
ton,  the  Rev.  Dr.  George  Bampney,  the  rector  of 
Grace  Church;  Dr.  Lucien  Venosste,  a  retired  physi 
cian,  who  owned  large  cotton  plantations  up  the  State, 
although  he  lived  most  of  his  time  in  Mobile;  Senor 
Francisco  Mendiota,  a  ship  owner,  an  exporter  of 
tobacco  and  cotton;  Mr.  Owen  Hudson,  a  leading 
lawyer  of  the  city  and  State,  and  various  other  friends 
of  consideration,  together  with  their  wives — were  suit 
ably  placed  about  the  table. 

The  peculiar  cosmopolitan  character  of  Mobile  soci 
ety  was  well  illustrated  by  the  company.  Bampney 
was  of  English  descent,  Venosste  of  French  ancestry, 
Mendiota  the  son  of  a  former  Spanish  governor,  Hud- 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

son  came  of  good  Massachusetts  stock  which  had 
strayed  South  prior  to  the  Revolution.  Centuries  of 
colonial  history  with  periods  of  differing  and  successive 
national  domination  in  the  land  were  represented  at  the 
table.  The  Annans,  of  course,  sprang  from  Scottish 
forebears.  There  were  touches  of  Irish  in  many  of  the 
guests,  and  here  and  there  a  hooked  eagle-like  face  was 
reminiscent  of  the  fierce  Mauvila  Indian  who  lorded 
it  over  the  land  before  Bienville's  day,  one  hundred 
and  sixty  years  before.  Yet  they  were  all  blended  into 
one  homogeneous  family  now,  and  upon  each  of  them 
were  written  the  characteristics  of  the  South.  They 
were  gentlemen  all,  men  of  culture  and  education,  of 
probity  and  ability,  of  honor  and  station;  possessed 
of  high  moral  sense,  honored  and  respected  in  the 
community,  and  governed  by  convictions  to  which 
they  adhered  with  passionate  intensity. 

Though  they  were  gathered  together  in  festal  guise 
and  to  do  honor  to  the  daughter  of  the  house,  the  one 
subject  that  would  obtrude  itself  was  the  one  para 
mount  in  every  heart.  By  universal  consent,  the  dis 
cussion  which  waxed  warm  and  persistent  as  the  meal 
was  dispatched,  irresistibly  turned  upon  the  predomi 
nant  question  of  secession  and  its  concomitant,  slavery. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  governor,  a  large  stout,  well- 
built,  rubicund,  blue-eyed  man,  "you  know  my  senti 
ments,  of  course.  I  telegraphed  to  the  governor  of 
South  Carolina  when  the  ordinance  was  being  con 
sidered,  on  my  own  account  and  in  my  own  behalf,  of 
course,  Tell  the  Carolina  convention  to  listen  to  no 
compromise  or  delay.' ' 

114 


A    DINNER   AND    A   DISCUSSION 

"We  indorse  everything  that  you  said,  Governor," 
said  Colonel  Peyton,  quickly. 

"The  State  is  with  you,"  added  Senor  Mendiota. 

"Our  cause  is  a  righteous  one,  and  it  will  prevail," 
remarked  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bampney. 

"Yes,  your  excellency,"  said  the  mayor,  a  wiry,  slen 
der,  nervous  man,  a  graduate  of  West  Point,  who  was 
to  see  hard  and  brilliant  service  later  in  the  war, 
"secession  will  sweep  the  convention  on  the  seventh,  if 
the  spirit  of  our  Mobile  people  is  any  criterion.  I 
do  not  believe  there  will  be  a  dozen  votes  cast  against 
it." 

"One  of  that  dozen  will  be  mine,"  firmly  interrupted 
Judge  Annan. 

"What,  Judge!"  cried  the  governor,  in  surprise, 
"you  are  not  one  of  Abe  Lincoln's  men,  are  you?" 

"No,  your  excellency,  by  no  means,  but  I  do  not  yet 
see  the  necessity  for  secession.  Abraham  Lincoln, 
much  as  I  dislike  the  man,"  said  the  aristocratic,  dis 
tinguished  gentleman,  who  was  one  of  the  very  few  in 
the  South  who  gave  the  President  his  full  Christian 
name,  "and  loth  as  I  am  to  think  that  the  President  of 
the  United  States  is  of  such  common  stock  and 
ordinary  breeding,  has  been  legally  elected  in  a  con 
stitutional  way.  I  do  not  apprehend  any  interference 
with  the  rights  of  the  South  from  him." 

"But,"  said  Dr.  Venosste,  "he  has  stated  that  the 
country  cannot  exist  half  slave  and  half  free." 

"That  doesn't  make  it  a  fact,  Doctor,"  said  the 
Judge;  "Alabama  exists  half  slave  and  half  free." 

"The  subjection  of  the  black  to  the  white  was  so  in- 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

tended,  ordained  of  old,"  commented  the  venerable 
clergyman,  sipping  his  wine. 

"As  to  the  question  of  interference,"  here  interposed 
Mr.  Hudson,  "whatever  the  will  of  the  President  might 
be,  he  is  restrained  by  our  constitutional  checks  from 
any  overt  action." 

"True,  gentlemen,"  said  the  judge,  "'and  believe 
me,  the  liberties  of  the  South  are  not  jeopardized  by 
his  election.  The  action  of  South  Carolina  was  hasty, 
unnecessary,  impolitic,  in  the  last  degree." 

This  announcement  was  received  in  dead  silence. 
There  was  but  one  heart  that  beat  responsive  to  it 
around  that  table,  young  Peyton's.  The  face  of  the 
judge's  daughter  was  filled  with  pain  and  shame.  The 
expression  on  most  of  the  others  was  surprise.  Colonel 
Peyton  with  difficulty  restrained  himself  from  an  ex 
plosion. 

"What  would  you  advise  then,  Judge?"  asked  the 
governor,  one  of  the  most  determined  advocates  of 
secession  in  the  South.  "What  would  you  have  us 
do?  Submit  tamely?" 

"Do  nothing,  sir.  Pursue  the  even  tenor  of  our 
way;  let  any  overt  action,  if  there  is  to  be  one,  come 
from — shall  I  say  the  enemy?  Let  the  North  show  its 
hand  first.  I,  for  one,  should  deplore  the  dissolution 
of  this  great  Union." 

'"Judge,"  said  the  mayor,  incisively,  "you  are  right 
in  the  last  phrase.  When  South  Carolina  went  out  of 
the  Union  it  was  thereby  immediately  dissolved." 

"Tis  a  fact  accomplished,"  said  the  clergyman. 

"I  fear  so.  Indeed,  indeed,  I  fear  so,"  remarked  the 
116 


A   DINNER   AND    A   DISCUSSION 

judge,  thoughtfully.     "But  my  convictions  are  as  I 
stated." 

"But  your  course,  Judge?"  asked  Colonel  Peyton. 

"Colonel  and  gentlemen,"  replied  Judge  Annan,  "I 
trust  that  my  patriotism  is  above  proof.  What  Ala 
bama  does,  I  do.  I  am  a  citizen  of  the  United  States, 
but  first  and  foremost  I  am  a  citizen  of  Alabama.  If 
she  goes  out  of  the  Union,  which  God  forbid,  I  go  with 
her.  If  it  breaks  my  heart  I  must  go  with  my  State." 

"Oh,  father,"  whispered  his  daughter,  "I  love  you 
for  that!" 

Boyd  Peyton's  heart  sank  into  the  depths  once 
more. 

"Gentlemen,"  said  Colonel  Peyton,  "if  my  old  friend 
will  permit  me,  I  give  you  a  health.  The  health  of  a 
man  who  subordinates  his  private  convictions,  his  in 
dividual  opinions,  to  the  allegiance  due  to  the  State  in 
which  he  was  born.  God  bless  her,  that  she  has  pro 
duced  such  sons,  and  may  all  here  do  likewise." 

As  he  spoke  he  shot  a  meaning  glance  at  his  son 
where  he  sat  next  to  Mary  Annan.  The  toast  was 
drunk  with  enthusiasm  by  everyone  present  except 
young  Peyton,  who  merely  touched  his  lips  to  his  glass 
after  some  hesitation  with  a  very  moody  countenance. 
In  the  ordinary  course  of  events,  with  the  termination 
of  the  dinner  proper  the  ladies  would  have  retired  to 
the  drawing-room  while  the  gentlemen  lingered  over 
their  wine,  but  the  subject  under  discussion  was  of 
such  burning  consequence  to  them  all  that  Madam 
Peyton,  who  had  assumed  the  role  of  hostess  for  the 
occasion,  sat  still  and  gave  no  signal.  The  conversa- 

117 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

tion  that  passed  around  the  table  between  the  older 
men  had  a  body  of  feminine  auditors  so  intensely  in 
terested  that  it  was  with  difficulty  that  they  kept  silent. 

"I  knew,  of  course,"  said  the  governor,  suavely,  as 
Colonel  Peyton  sat  down,  "  that  we  could  count  upon 
you,  and  indeed,  Judge,  I  think  you  are  wrong.  I 
am  sure  that  an  attempt  will  be  made  to  dispossess  us 
of  our  slaves  summarily,  and  to  force  upon  us,  without 
time  for  preparation  or  resistance,  the  very  choice 
which  we  now  make,  or  will  make,  shortly." 

"An  irreconcilable  difference  of  economic  systems 
will  inevitably  produce  an  irrepressible  conflict,  which 
will  not  cease  until  one  or  the  other  system  triumphs. 
What  Lincoln  said  is  true.  The  country  cannot  exist 
half  slave,  half  free.  They  will  resist  secession  in  the 
North.  The  conflict  is  inevitable,"  said  the  lawyer, 
slowly  and  carefully  delivering  his  weighty  words, 
which  made  a  profound  impression  upon  all  by  their 
'gravity  and  accuracy. 

"I  agree  with  the  governor  on  the  one  hand,"  said 
Dr.  Venosste,  a  thoughtful  old  man,  beloved  by  every 
one  in  the  town  because  of  his  kindly,  charitable  life, 
"and  I  agree  with  my  friend  the  judge,  and  Lawyer 
Hudson,  on  the  other.  I  do  not  regard  slavery,  with 
all  deference  to  you,  reverend  sir,  as  a  divine  institu 
tion.  As  an  economic  system,  it  seems  to  me  to  be 
extravagant  and  ill  adapted  to  the  needs  of  a  com 
munity  like  ours,  although  I  am  a  slave-owner,  as  my 
family  have  been  for  generations.  I  was  born  and 
reared  amid  the  institution  of  slavery;  I  first  learned  to 
whirl  the  top  and  bounce  the  ball  with  the  young 

118 


A    DINNER   AND    A   DISCUSSION 

African.  Everything  I  own  on  earth  is  the  result  of 
slave  labor,  the  bread  that  feeds  my  wife  and  children 
is  produced  by  the  labor  of  slaves.  They  live  on  my 
plantations  with  every  feeling  of  kindness,  as  between 
master  and  slave.  I  love  them,  they  love  me.  Yet, 
frankly,  I  would  rather  see  them  free.  I  should  be 
ready  to  join  and  co-operate  with  any  move  whatso 
ever  looking  to  that  end.  To  free^them  myself  out  of 
hand,  and  without  general  co-operation  among  other 
slaveholders,  would  be  to  plunge  them  into  poverty 
and  disaster,  but  it  has  been  my  hope  that  some  means 
might  be  devised  whereby  slave  labor  could  be  sup 
planted  by  free  labor  and  property  holding  in  slaves 
might  cease  to  be  in  the  South.  So  the  'irreconcilable 
difference'  Mr.  Hudson  speaks  of  might  be — shall  I  say 
harmonized?" 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  governor,  reading  from  a, 
newspaper  clipping  which  he  took  from  his  pocket, 
"Yesterday  in  Montgomery,  at  the  session  of  the  Ala 
bama  Conference  of  the  Methodist  Church,  South,  it 
was  resolved  that  the  Conference  believed  'African 
slavery  as  it  existed  in  the  South  to  be  a  wise,  humane, 
and  righteous  institution,  appointed  of  God  and  cal 
culated  to  promote  in  the  highest  possible  degree  the 
welfare  of  the  slave;  that  the  election  of  a  sectional 
President  of  the  United  States  was  evidence  of  the 
hostility  of  the  majority  of  the  people  to  the  South, 
and  which,  in  fact,  if  not  in  form,  dissolves  the  com 
pact  of  Union  between  the  States  and  drives  the 
aggrieved  party  to  assert  its  independence;'  and  they 
said  further,  'Our  hearts  are  with  the  South,  and  should 

119 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

there  be  need  we  shall  not  be  found  wanting  in  the 
hour  of  danger/  ' 

"A  ringing  declaration  that,"  said  Dr.  Bampney, 
who  was  an  Episcopalian,  "from  our  Methodist 
brethren.  Pity  that  men  of  such  clear  insight  ever 
left  the  fold  of  the  true  Church." 

"It's  a  question  of  property  again.  Almost  all 
political  or  even  moral  questions  have  a  material  basis. 
The  Northern  States,  in  defiance  of  the  Constitution, 
have  denied  that  slaves  are  property,  have  refused  to 
protect  slave-owners,  in  despite  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law,  in  their  title  to  their  slaves,  and  will  refuse,"  said 
the  lawyer,  again  clearly  stating  the  case  and  with  his 
fine  legal  mind  going  to  the  core  of  the  problem  in  a 
way  that  awakened  everybody's  admiration. 

"The  right  to  govern  rests  in  a  small  minority,"  said 
the  aristocratic  Mendiota,  never  having  shaken  off  the 
autocratic  heredity  of  his  Spanish  ancestry,  the  most 
persistent  blood  in  Europe,  "the  duty  to  obey  is  in 
herent  in  the  great  mass  of  mankind.  The  real  civ 
ilization  of  a  country  is  in  its  aristocracy.  We  can 
have  no  aristocracy  in  the  South  without  slave  labor, 
and  if  we  cannot  have  slaves  without  secession,  let  us 
secede." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  judge,  passing  over  the  re 
marks  of  the  last  speaker  as  unworthy  of  refutation, 
"I  think  Dr.  Venosste  is  right.  I  have  held  similar 
opinions,  and  yet  one  circumstance  has  convinced  me 
at  least  of  the  futility  of  any  present  hope  of  a  peace 
able,  orderly  abrogation  of  slavery.  It  has  not  im 
paired  my  conclusions  or  blinded  my  judgment,  I  trust, 

120 


A    DINNER    AND    A   DISCUSSION 

but  I  am  aware  that  it  has  done  more  to  deter  men 
who  think  as  Dr.  Venosste  and  myself — and  there  are 
many  of  us — from  any  concerted  action,  than  anything 
that  could  have  been  done." 

"What  was  that,  Judge?"  asked  Colonel  Peyton. 

"The  conduct  of  the  North  with  regard  to  the  John 
Brown  raid." 

"Yes,  yes,"  cried  the  colonel,  "what  did  the  North 
ern  sympathizers  think  of  that?  Here  was  a  blood 
thirsty  fanatic,  who  struck  against  the  sovereign  State 
of  Virginia,  and  through  her  against  the  United 
States,"  he  continued  fiercely,  with  a  singular  perver 
sion  of  the  relative  importance  of  the  sovereign  bodies. 
"Here  was  a  man  who  levied  war  upon  a  constitutional 
commonwealth  and  upon  a  confederation  of  common 
wealths;  who  seized  a  government  arsenal,  shot  or  im 
prisoned  unoffending  citizens,  and  did  it  all  with  the 
avowed  purpose  of  exciting  a  servile  insurrection; 
who  cherished  the  monstrous  design  of  arming  the 
slaves,  of  letting  them  loose  upon  our  wives  and  chil 
dren — think  of  it,  in  the  presence  of  the  grace  and 
beauty  around  this  board,  gentlemen ! — of  turning 
these  men  into  fiends  with  his  impracticable  dreams 
of  liberty  and  freedom,  and  precipitating  upon  the 
country  horrors  unspeakable!" 

"Yes,"  said  the  judge,  more  calmly,  "you  are  right. 
When  he  was  apprehended  by  the  gallant  Lee  of  Vir 
ginia " 

"Gentlemen,  you  will  hear  more  of  that  man  when 
war  comes,"  interrupted  the  mayor.  "I  knew  him  at 
West  Point." 

121 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"When  he  was  apprehended  and  tried  and  convicted 
of  high  treason  by  due  process  of  law,"  continued  the 
judge,  "every  opportunity  being  afforded  him  for  de 
fence,  before  an  impartial  jury  of  his  countrymen,  and 
when  he  was  executed  in  a  dignified  and  orderly  man 
ner,  without  execration  or  obloquy,  in  vindication  of 
the  law,  what  then?  Gentlemen,  you  are  aware  that 
churches  all  over  the  North  held  services  of  humilia 
tion  and  prayer — that  Brown  was  glorified  as  a  saint. 
Minute  guns  were  fired.  In  the  Legislature  of  the 
great  State  of  Massachusetts  eight  out  of  the  nine 
teen  senators  voted  to  adjourn  at  the  time  of  the  exe 
cution.  Women  canonized  the  bloodthirsty  old  fanatic 
as  St.  John  the  Just.  Philanthropists  pronounced  him 
most  truly  Christian.  Northern  poets,  like  Whittier, 
Emerson,  and  Longfellow,  wrote  panegyrics  upon  him. 
Orators,  like  Wendell  Phillips  and  William  Lloyd  Gar 
rison,  approved  his  action,  and  counted  him  a  martyr. 
Why,  it  was  proved  that  Christian  ministers " 

"I  blush  for  them !"  interrupted  Dr.  Bampney, 
hotly;  "I  repudiate  them!" 

" — had  been  party  to  his  scheme  of  assassination 
and  robbery." 

"Shame !  Shame !"  broke  from  one  man  and  another 
as  the  judge's  voice  rose  in  stern  denunciation. 

"That  opened  my  eyes,  gentlemen,  as  nothing  else 
could  have  done,"  said  the  old  man,  slowly;  "that 
paralyzed  all  the  efforts  we  had  been  quietly  making 
looking  toward  the  manumission  of  the  slaves." 

"But,  Judge,  after  that,  can  you  doubt  that  war  will 
come?"  asked  the  mayor,  quickly. 

122 


A    DINNER    AND    A   DISCUSSION 

"I  do  not  know  what  to  say  as  to  that,"  answered 
the  judge.  "It  may  come  in  God's  providence.  Per 
haps  it  will  come.  I  fear  so,  but,  frankly,  I  have  not 
changed  my  mind  upon  secession.  The  Union  is  ours. 
We  are  a  part  of  it.  Think  of  the  moral  advantage  we 
have  by  claiming  and  retaining  it !  Let  those  who  dis 
like  our  system  leave  us.  Let  us  not  go  out." 

"Judge,"  said  the  governor,  "your  ideas  are  im 
practicable.  If  the  war  must  come — and  I,  for  one, 
am  sure  it  will — we  must  not  wait  until  the  fourth  of 
March.  Forewarned,  we  must  be  forearmed.  Rather 
than  submit  for  one  moment  to  black  Republican  rule, 
I  would  have  our  people  fight  to  the  last  drop  of 
blood  to  resist  this  fanatical  oppression.  We  can  only 
guarantee  our  safety  by  the  strength  of  our  arms." 

"Are  we  sure  of  the  success  of  those  arms?  I  speak 
not  in  doubt,  but  seek  assurance  from  the  soldiers 
present,"  asked  the  judge  quickly. 

"Perfectly  sure,"  replied  Withers,  confidently. 
"Don't  you  think  so,  Colonel  Peyton?" 

"Not  a  doubt  of  it,  sir !  The  Yankees  won't  stand  a 
ghost  of  a  show  with  the  South,"  answered  the  colonel, 
with  equally  confident  assurance. 

"And  if  the  valor  of  our  citizens  were  not  enough," 
interposed  Dr.  Venosste,  "we  have  another  ally." 

"And  that  is?"  asked  Dr.  Bampney. 

"Cotton,  sir !  Cotton  is  king.  We  control  the  cot 
ton  product  of  the  world.  England  and  France, 
Europe,  must  be  with  us  on  that  account,  if  no  other." 

"Suppose  the  North  tries  to  blockade  our  ports, 
Doctor?"  queried  Mendiota. 

123 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"They  could  not.  The  task  would  be  so  gigantic 
as  to  be  impracticable,  and  the  Powers  would  not  per 
mit  it.  They  must  have  cotton;  they  can  get  it  no 
place  but  here." 

"You  are  correct,  Dr.  Venosste,"  exclaimed  the  gov 
ernor;  "cotton  is  king,  and  we  are  the  power  behind 
its  throne.  But,  aside  from  that,  the  fighting  power 
of  the  South  is  vastly  greater  than  that  of  the  North, 
in  spite  of  their  advantage  in  numbers,  for  here  every 
man  is  a  soldier.  I  am  as  sure  of  success  as  I  am 
convinced  of  the  power  of  a  State  to  withdraw  from 
the  Union." 

"Abstractly  no  one  can  deny  the  right  of  secession. 
The  Constitution  is  the  act  of  the  several  sovereign 
States;  it  is  their  instrument.  The  instrument  could 
not  be  construed  as  binding  any  unwilling  to  ratify  it, 
nor  as  holding  any  bound  who  wish  to  be  free.  All 
we  wish  is  to  be  let  alone,  to  be  allowed  to  depart  in 
peace.  Shall  we  be  allowed  neither  peace  in  the 
Union  nor  the  poor  boon  of  seeking  it  out  of  the 
Union?"  asked  Hudson,  incisively. 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  cried  Colonel  Peyton,  "we 
must  organize  conventions  all  over  the  South,  set  fire 
to  the  Southern  heart,  instruct  the  Southern  mind, 
give  courage  to  each  other,  and  at  the  proper  moment, 
by  one  organized,  concerted  action,  precipitate  the 
conflict  with  a  first  blow,  which  will  give  us  an  ad 
vantage." 

"No,  no;  if  the  war  comes  let  them  make  it,"  said 
the  judge. 

"And  as  to  secession,"  continued  the  governor,  "it 
124 


A   DINNER   AND    A   DISCUSSION 

is  true,  as  Mr.  Hudson  says,  the  Union  was  made  up 
by  the  voluntary  adhesion  thereto  of  the  different 
commonwealths,  and  that  any  State  thereof,  consistent 
with  the  national  Constitution,  may  lawfully  and  peace 
ably  withdraw  from  the  Union  without  the  consent  of 
the  Union  or  of  any  State.  Let  those  who  shall  strive 
to  prevent  it  look  to  it  at  their  peril !  We  have  rights 
and  we  dare  to  maintain  them!  We  will  fight  for 
them  with  the  last  ounce  of  our  treasure  and  the  last 
drop  of  our  blood.  Believe  me,  when  the  time  comes 
Alabama  will  not  be  found  lagging  in  the  rear.  Her 
children,  gentlemen,"  said  the  governor,  rising  to  his 
feet,  "will  be  found  at  the  front.  We  have  waited  too 
long.  This  very  day,  this  very  hour,  a  movement  is 
on  foot  which  will  be  consummated  before  the  sun 
rises  again,  which  will  assure  the  world  of  our  mean- 
ing." 

The  men  had  risen  in  excitement  as  the  governor 
made  this  important  announcement,  and  they  burst 
into  wild  cheering  as  he  closed.  Judge  Annan  and 
Dr.  Venosste  alone  preserved  their  composure.  Even 
Boyd  Peyton  had  been  carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm 
of  the  moment  and  had  risen  to  his  feet  with  the  rest. 
A  swift  glance  of  approval  which  Mary  Annan  shot 
at  him  more  than  repaid  him.  Darrow,  who  had  de 
voted  himself,  with  the  chivalry  of  the  kind-hearted 
gentleman,  to  Pinkie  Peyton,  intercepted  the  glance, 
and  his  heart  sank  in  consequence. 


CHAPTER    XIV 


B 


THE   GAGE    IS   THROWN 

EFORE  the  cheering  died  away  the 
door  giving  entrance  from  the  hall  was 
suddenly  thrown  open  and  a  young 
man  in  the  uniform  of  a  corporal  of 
the  Light  Cavalry  burst  unceremoni 
ously  into  the  room.  Clicking  his 
heels  together,  he  made  a  military  sa 
lute  to  the  host. 

"Excuse  me,  Judge  Annan,"  he  said, 
"and  ladies  and  gentlemen  all,  but  I've 
come  for  Sergeant  Darrow.  Orders, 
sir;  he's  wanted  at  the  armory  imme 
diately." 

"Madam,"  said  Darrow,  rising  to 
his  feet  and  bowing  to  Mrs.  Peyton, 
"by  your  leave.  Judge,  Miss  Mary, 
and  gentlemen  all,  I  bid  you  good-evening.  Duty  calls 
me.  Now,  corporal,  I  am  ready." 

"Stop,  corporal!"  said  the  governor.  "What  are 
your  orders?" 

"Orders  to  muster  the  troop  of  cavalry  at  the 
armory  at  once  for  active  service,  sir,"  said  the  cor 
poral,  a  young  fellow  called  Hamilton  Pleasants, 
known  intimately  to  everyone  in  the  room. 

126 


THE    GAGE    IS    THROWN 

"And  what  then?" 

"I  know  no  more  than  that,  your  excellency." 

"Ah,  gentlemen,"  said  the  governor,  "there  is  the 
ideal  soldier.  He  obeys  orders  without  question. 
Well,  sir,  you  and  your  company  shall  know,  and  the 
world  shall  know,  what  your  orders  are  before  the  sun 
rises.  WTiere  is  the  armory?" 

"It's  down  on  Massachusetts  Street,  sir,"  said 
Darrow. 

"No,  sir,  excuse  me,"  said  the  corporal,  quickly,  "it's 
on  Charleston  Street." 

"How's  that?"  exclaimed  Colonel  Peyton,  in  sur 
prise.  "I  know  no  street  by  that  name." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  mayor,  "council  passed  a 
resolution  this  afternoon  renaming  all  streets  that  were 
previously  named  after  Northern  States,  after  the 
glorious  cities  and  commonwealths  of  the  South. 
Gentlemen,  we  will  wipe  out  every  vestige  of  the 
North  from  our  records  as  we  obliterate  the  oppressors 
from  our  hearts,"  he  continued,  amid  laughter  and 
applause. 

"Good  luck  and  Godspeed  to  you,  Sergeant  Dar 
row,"  said  Mary  Annan,  rising  and  coming  swiftly 
around  the  table  to  his  side  and  taking  his  hand,  her 
eyes  shining  with  animation.  "Wherever  you  go,  and 
whatever  you  do,  our  hearts  are  with  you." 

The  young  soldier  wrung  her  slender  hand  and  then, 
without  a  word,  bowed  deeply,  turned  sharply  on  his 
heel,  and  left  the  room,  followed  by  Pleasants. 

"Is  this  war?"  queried  the  Rev.  Dr.  Bampney. 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Colonel  Peyton,  "this  is  play." 
127 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Yes,"  added  the  governor,  "but  in  the  end  it  will 
be  war  of  the  grimmest  kind." 

"Alas !"  said  the  judge,  "I  fear  so.  Meanwhile,  be 
fore  we  go  into  the  drawing  room,  where  I  have  in 
vited  the  young  folks  to  assemble  this  evening  for  a 
little  dancing  party,  let  us  fill  our  glasses  once  more 
and  put  away  from  us  all  thoughts  of  strife  and  war, 
of  politics  and  principles,  to  which  I  fear  the  ladies  may 
fancy  we  have  given  too  much  attention  in  their 
charming  presence." 

"No,  no,"  cried  Mrs.  Peyton,  "we  are  as  interested 
as  you  are." 

"Yes,"  said  another,  "we  would  rather  have  heard 
the  discussion  than  talk  ourselves  upon  any  other  sub- 
ject." 

"Ah,  well,"  said  the  judge,  "let  us  put  it  all  aside 
now.  Gentlemen,  I  give  you  the  health  of  my  daugh 
ter  Mary,  the  pride  of  my  heart,  the  pride  of  my  old 
age.  There  she  stands,  gentlemen,  just  budding  into 
womanhood,  with  all  the  future  before  her.  Drink  to 
her  happiness,  drink  to  her  welfare,  if  you  love  me." 

"Stop !"  cried  the  girl.  "It  is  my  birthday,  it  is  my 
hour.  Perhaps  I  may  speak,  though  a  woman.  Let 
me  substitute  a  toast,  father.  I  know  what  our  good 
friends  would  fain  say,  and  what  they  think.  They 
give  me  too  many  evidences  of  their  affection  for  it 
to  be  in  doubt,"  she  went  on  impetuously,  the  words 
rippling  to  her  lips,  the  color  mantling  to  her  face, 
her  eyes  sparkling  with  excitement.  "Let  no  one 
drink  a  toast  to  me,  but  those  who  love  me,  who  wish 
me  well  on  this  day,  my  birthday,  drink  first  and  only 

128 


THE    GAGE    IS    THROWN 

to  the  old  South,  which  is  to  be  the  new  Southx  and 
the  great  Confederacy  about  to  take  its  place  among 
the  nations.  I  give  you  the  South,  gentlemen!" 

"The  South!  The  South!"  rang  from  one  end  of 
the  room  to  the  other. 

The  girl's  voice  rose  in  sweet  intensity  above  the 
tumult. 

"I  want  you  to  drink  it  with  the  resolution  that  you 
will  pour  out  your  heart's  blood  in  defence  of  it,  as 
lightly  as  you  quaff  the  draught  of  wine." 

As  she  spoke  she  lifted  her  glass,  as  all  the  others 
did  with  one  acclaim,  but  before  touching  it  to  her 
lips  her  eyes  turned  to  Boyd  Peyton.  He  was  pale 
but  determined.  As  he  met  her  glance  he  unsteadily 
seized  his  own  glass  in  a  trembling  hand,  shot  one 
meaning  look  toward  her,  lifted  it  and  then  drained 
it!  Her  heart  almost  stopped  its  beating  at  this  evi 
dence  of  his  final  adherence.  The  colonel,  who  had 
watched  him  with  equal  intentness,  gladly  exclaimed 
under  his  breath,  though  more  than  one  heard  his 
words : 

"Thank  God !     The  woman  has  done  it  at  last !" 

With  gratitude  too  deep  to  be  expressed,  he,  too, 
drank  the  toast. 

The  action  of  the  young  man,  whose  hesitation,  as 
well  as  his  position  as  a  naval  officer,  had  been  the 
subject  of  discussion  among  all  his  friends,  was  noticed 
by  many  others  present,  and  as  the  glasses  were  set 
down  upon  the  table  the  men  broke  forth  into  cheers 
again,  cheers  for  him. 

"Damme,"  cried  the  colonel,  in  his  excitement,  "if 
129 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

this  is  the  spirit  of  our  women,  with  apologies  to  you 
ladies,  what  may  we  not  expect  from  our  men?" 

Mary  Annan  turned  to  Peyton  in  the  confusion. 

"Have  I  done  well?  Have  I  said  well?"  she 
whispered. 

"Almost  you  have  persuaded  me/'  said  Peyton,  smil 
ing  up  at  her. 

"My  son,  my  son !"  said  his  father,  coming  toward 
him  and  laying  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  "Thank 
God!  Thank  God!" 

The  quick  rattling  of  a  drum  outside  broke  the  sud 
den  silence  which  fell  upon  the  company  as  the  cheer 
ing  at  last  died  away. 

"What's  that?  The  long  roll,  eh?"  cried  the 
colonel,  lifting  his  head  and  sniffing  the  air  like  an  old 
war  horse. 

"It's  a  drum  beating  the  assembly,"  said  the  mayor, 
who  recognized  the  call  from  his  West  Point  years. 

"There  it  goes  again !"  cried  another. 

"Where  is  it?"  asked  a  third. 

"It  comes  from  that  direction,"  cried  one  pointing 
toward  the  front  of  the  house. 

"It's  at  the  armory  of  the  Cadets,  down  on  Conti 
Street." 

"They  are  coming  this  way,"  cried  the  colonel,  as 
the  rattling  grew  louder.  "Quick!  Let  us  see 
them !" 

By  common  impulse  the  company  surged  toward 
the  long  French  windows  opening  upon  the  gallery. 
Mary  Annan  was  quicker  than  the  rest,  and  Boyd  Pey 
ton  was  by  her  side.  Their  fingers  fumbled  at  the 

130 


THE   GAGE   IS    THROWN 

curtains  and  the  fastenings  of  the  blinds,  and  tore  them 
open.  In  a  moment  the  assemblage  poured  out  upon 
the  porch.  They  had  sat  unusually  long  at  the  table. 
Night  had  fallen,  the  soft,  deep  semi-tropic  night  with 
the  stars  blazing  brilliantly  overhead.  The  bright 
lights  from  the  room  behind  them  streamed  through 
the  windows  revealing  the  gay  party.  As  Mary  Annan 
shivered  in  the  chill  air  Boyd  wrapped  her  shawl  about 
her  bare  shoulders.  He  longed  to  press  a  kiss  upon 
them.  She  threw  her  head  upward  and  backward,  as 
he  did  so,  and  flashed  one  glance  from  those  glorious 
brown  eyes  upon  him  which  intoxicated  him.  He 
would  have  thrown  away  the  world  for  her — then ! 

Out  on  the  street  the  troops  were  coming.  The 
lights  from  torches  carried  by  negro  boys  on  the  flanks 
sparkled  upon  the  bayonets.  As  they  drew  nearer  the 
fifes  joined  the  drums  in  that  already  popular  song, 
"Listen  to  the  Mocking-Bird." 

It  shrilled  through  the  dark  and  crowded  streets. 
The  entrancing  strains  rang  above  the  cheers  and 
shouts  of  the  crowd.  How  handsome  and  mysterious 
the  soldiers  looked  in  the  uncertain  light !  After  the 
Mobile  Cadets  came  the  German  Fusileers,  then  the 
Independent  Rifles,  then  the  Washington  Artillery 
men,  and  in  the  rear  the  Light  Cavalry. 

"Oh,  where  are  they  going?"  cried  Mary  Annan  to 
the  governor,  who  stood  by  her  side. 

The  old  governor  hesitated  a  moment  and  looked 
at  her  quizzically. 

"You  can  tell  us  now,  surely,  sir,"  she  urged,  lay 
ing  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

The  governor  hesitated  still,  but  finally  made  up 
his  mind. 

"My  dear  Miss  Mary,"  he  said  at  last,  with  fatherly 
kindness,  raising  his  voice  as  he  spoke  so  that  the 
whole  assemblage  could  hear  him,  "we  are  going  to 
forestall  the  United  States  troops  who  were  ordered 
South  on  New  Year's  day.  I  have  directed  the  cav 
alry  to  seize  the  Mount  Vernon  arsenal!  I  have 
ordered  them  to  turn  over  the  arms  to  the  military 
force  of  the  State !" 

"And  the  Cadets,  and  the  rest?"  interrupted  the 
young  woman. 

"They  are  going  down  to  take  and  garrison  Fort 
Morgan !" 

A  deep  sigh  seemed  to  rise  from  the  company  on  the 
porch  as  they  realized  the  fateful  import  of  the  gov 
ernor's  words.  It  was  followed  by  a  burst  of  applause, 
but  the  drums  and  fifes  were  just  opposite  the  railing 
now.  The  captain  of  the  battalion  took  in  the  group 
on  the  gallery,  but  a  few  yards  away — the  governor, 
the  mayor,  the  women.  He  turned  sharply.  A  word 
of  command  rang  out.  There  was  a  crash  and  clatter 
of  arms.  The  light  rippled  over  the  moving  bayonets 
as  the  men  gave  the  marching  salute.  A  great  roar 
of  cheers  burst  from  the  men  and  women  surrounding 
the  soldiers,  and  then  the  troops  themselves  joined  in 
the  acclaim.  Above  it  all  rang  the  shrill  notes  of  the 
fife  playing  the  "Mocking-Bird,"  breaking  into  the 
night  with  its  passionate  cadence. 

Far  over  the  railing  leaned  Mary  Annan.  Quick 
she  tore  the  shawl  from  her  shoulders  and  shook  it, 

132 


THE    GAGE    IS    THROWN 

flaunted  it  toward  the  passing  soldiers.  And  Bob  Dar- 
row  caught  her  glance  as  he  rode,  and  thought  it  a 
greeting  for  him.  At  Mary's  feet  a  small  figure  clad 
in  a  white  nightdress,  who  had  at  that  moment  ap 
peared  on  the  scene,  clung  to  her,  and  Tempe,  raising 
her  voice  to  win  attention,  called  out : 

"I  heard  the  drums,  sister,  an'  I  came.  Are  they 
going  to  shoot  against  the  Nunited  States?" 

The  judge,  with  a  singular  contraction  at  his  heart, 
caught  up  his  youngest  daughter  and  stilled  her 
prophecy.  And  the  regiment  swept  on. 

Oh,  if  he  lived  for  a  thousand  years,  time  could 
never  erase  from  Boyd  Peyton's  memory  the  picture  of 
that  radiant  figure  standing  on  the  edge  of  the  balcony, 
that  uplifted  bare  arm  catching  the  shawl  that  he  had 
thrown  upon  her  .shoulders,  and  waving  it  in  the  air 
like  a  bonny  blue  flag,  while  the  "Mocking-Bird  "  was 
playing  in  the  street ! 


CHAPTER   XV 


THE   KISS  THAT  BETRAYED 


T 


HERE  was  no  dancing-party  that  night. 
The  action  of  the  governor  in  order 
ing  out  the  military  had  taken  nearly 
every  available  young  man  from  the 
city,  and  the  few  who  were  left  were 
in  no  mood  for  festivities  of  the  kind 
proposed.  From  a  military  point  of 
view  the  expedition  to  take  possession 
of  the  arsenal  at  Mount  Vernon,  up 
the  river,  and  seize  Forts  Morgan  and 
Gaines,  down  the  bay,  amounted  to 
nothing.  That  is  to  say,  no  resistance 
was  expected  at  any  of  the  three  places, 
and  no  danger  would  be  incurred  by 
the  State  troops.  Indeed  unless  the 
United  States  Government  had  already 
re-enforced  the  forts  at  the  mouth  of  the  bay,  from 
the  sea,  there  was  no  garrison  in  them.  There  had 
not  been  time  for  the  carrying  out  of  the  orders  from 
Washington,  which  would  have  despatched  troops  to 
them,  and  all  that  the  Alabamians  would  have  to  do 
would  be  to  sail  down  and  secure  them,  which  they 
did  on  the  morning  of  January  4th,  easily  dispossess 
ing  the  garrison  which  consisted  of  one  old  sergeant 
of  artillery  and  one  mule ! 

134 


THE    KISS    THAT    BETRAYED 

But  the  moral  effect  of  the  expedition  was  tre 
mendous.  The  election  of  deputies  had  plainly  fore 
shadowed  the  secession  of  Alabama,  beyond  perad- 
venture,  as  soon  as  the  convention  should  be  called, 
but  no  overt  act  had  yet  been  committed  by  the  State; 
there  had  been  no  act  of  hostility  to  the  United  States, 
of  which  Alabama  still  remained  a  part.  This  seizure 
of  the  property  and  arms  and  fortifications  of  the 
general  Government  by  a  particular  State  was  a  fla 
grant  open  defiance  of  the  authorities  at  Washington. 
Unless  the  action  of  the  governor  were  immediately 
disavowed  by  the  people  through  their  representatives, 
it  meant  war.  The  most  stupid,  the  most  careless,  the 
most  indifferent,  perceived  the  significance  of  the  two 
expeditions.  Alabama  was  showing  herself  as  bold 
and  determined  as  South  Carolina. 

There  was,  however,  on  that  account,  no  hesitation 
anywhere.  The  approval  of  the  governor's  action  as 
soon  as  it  became  known,  was  well-nigh  universal. 
He  had  shrewdly  taken  stock  of  public  opinion  and 
was  entirely  sure  of  his  own  ground  before  he  moved. 
Indeed,  from  his  point  of  view  his  action  was  soundly 
politic.  If  there  was  to  be  war  the  quicker  the  South 
got  possession  of  the  implements  wherewith  to  wage 
it,  the  better;  and  if  there  was  to  be  no  war,  the 
sooner  the  valuable  auxiliary  to  these  defensive 
preparations  which  some  people  believed  might  avert 
it,  to  be  found  in  the  forts  and  arsenals  of  the  South 
ern  States,  should  be  seized,  the  better. 

A  few  men  like  Judge  Annan  and  Dr.  Venosste, 
deplored  the  precipitate  action,  but  postulating  the  ne- 

135 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

cessity  or  the  actuality  rather  of  secession,  even  they 
recognized  the  propriety  of  it;  and  knowing  any  pro 
tests  they  were  inclined  to  make  would  have  been  so 
futile  as  to  be  scarcely  worth  utterance,  they  kept 
silent.  Indeed,  in  southern  Alabama,  while  the  people 
were  divided  between  out  and  out  advocates  of  im 
mediate  State  action,  without  reference  to  any  other 
State,  and  the  "co-operationists,"  as  they  were  called, 
who  wished  to  hold  back  the  State  until  the  movement 
became  general  and  co-operation  and  unity  of  action 
be  thus  assured,  everybody  was  in  harmony  on  the 
main  question. 

The  governor,  with  the  pressure  of  anxiety  and  re 
sponsibility  hard  upon  him,  withdrew  shortly  after 
the  passage  of  the  troops,  and  the  rest  followed  his 
example  in  taking  their  departure. 

Peyton  fortunately  had  time  for  a  few  words  with 
Mary  Annan  before  he  left.  As  the  assemblage  was 
breaking  up,  and  as  his  mother  and  sister  were  putting 
on  their  wraps  in  the  house,  he  found  himself  alone 
with  her  on  the  balcony.  He  stood  before  her  for  a 
moment  without  speaking.  Mary  Annan's  eyes 
shone  like  the  stars  above  them.  Her  white  figure 
melted  in  the  darkness  about  them.  Perhaps  it  was 
that  gave  her  courage.  She  was  a  creature  of  im 
pulse  at  best.  She  took  her  lover's  hands  in  both 
her  own  and,  with  an  instinctive  gesture  of  pas 
sionate  self-forgetfulness,  pressed  them  against  her 
heart. 

"Thank  you,  thank  you !"  she  murmured,  not  quite 
comprehending  what  she  did  in  her  excitement  and 

136 


THE    KISS    THAT    BETRAYED 

emotion,  "but  I  knew  how  it  would  be.  I  knew  that 
you  would  be  true  to  us  at  last." 

"To  you,  dear,  to  you,"  interrupted  Peyton,  softly, 
wholly  under  the  spell  of  her  beauty,  drawing  nearer 
to  her  as  he  spoke. 

How  handsome  he  looked,  she  thought.  Her  head 
sank  beneath  the  almost  fierce  intensity  of  his  gaze. 

"Not  to  me,"  she  urged,  still  not  mistress  of  her 
self;  "to  the  South." 

"You  incarnated  that  spirit  for  me  to-night.  Oh, 
how  beautiful  you  were — you  are !"  The  words  fairly 
rushed  from  him.  "How  I  loved  you !  Tell  me,  tell 
me  again.  Have  you  no  kinder  word  for  me  now, 
now  that  I  am  yours — now  that  I  belong  to  your 
cause?  Ah,  sweet,  I  love  you,  I  love  you !" 

She  had  released  his  hands  and  now  stood  silent  be 
fore  him  in  sweet  if  helpless  confusion.  Emboldened 
by  her  silence,  by  the  yielding  that  spoke  in  her  posi 
tion,  he  stole  one  arm  around  her  waist.  She  did  not 
withdraw.  She  did  not  resist.  She  stood  quite  still. 
But  her  heart,  oh,  how  it  beat  and  beat ! 

"Have  you  no  answer?"  he  whispered,  and  as  she 
made  no  reply  he  bent  and  kissed  her  hair  falling  over 
her  blushing  cheeks.  "Speak !"  he  urged. 

"Almost — you — persuade  me,"  she  whispered, 
brokenly,  softly. 

They  were  his  own  words  spoken  a  moment  since. 
As  she  lifted  her  face  slowly  to  speak  to  him  he  bent 
his  head  further  and  this  time,  instead  of  her  hair,  he 
kissed  her  lips.  She  yielded  herself  to  his  burning 
caress  in  a  surrender  as  sweet  as  it  was  unexpected. 

137 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done?"  she  cried,  wildly,  a  mo 
ment  later,  leaning  back  from  him  and  burying  her  hot 
face  in  her  trembling  hands. 

"Made  me  the  happiest  of  men,  dearest  love,  if  that 
kiss  be  forgiven,"  Peyton  answered,  drawing  her  to 
him,  insistent  to  pursue  his  advantage  and  waiting  the 
longed-for  admission  from  her  lips. 

He  was  steeped  in  love,  forgetful  of  everything. 
He  knew  not  what  he  had  said  or  done;  all  his  thoughts 
at  that  moment  were  upon  her.  He  had  held  her  in 
his  arms  at  last,  he  had  kissed  her.  She  loved  him. 
What  else  was  there  to  know,  or  to  think  about,  in 
the  whole  wide  world? 

"Boyd,  dear/'  said  his  mother,  and  it  was  the  first 
time  in  his  life  that  her  call  was  not  welcome  to  him,  as 
she  came  out  on  the  porch  at  that  very  moment, 
"we  are  waiting  for  you." 

"I  am  coming,  mother,"  he  replied,  vainly  trying  to 
stifle  his  bitter  disappointment.  "I  was  just  saying 
good-by  to  Miss  Mary,  here,"  he  said,  stepping  into 
the  light,  where  he  was  followed  a  minute  later  by  the 
girl. 

She  had  to  come  forward  though  she  shrank  from 
it;  the  conventions  of  her  society  required  her  to 
speed  her  parting  guests.  The  keen  eye  of  the  older 
woman  saw  the  hot  blush  still  mantling  in  Mary  An 
nan's  cheek,  she  marked  the  glisten  of  tears  upon 
the  eyelashes,  and  drew  her  own  inference.  She  was 
very,  very  happy.  Her  son,  her  oldest  son,  the  pride 
of  her  life,  who  had  been  hesitating  as  to  his  course  of 
action,  seemed  at  last  to  have  made  a  decision,  a  de- 

138 


THE    KISS    THAT    BETRAYED 

cision  in  accord  with  her  wishes  and  the  wishes  of  her 
people ;  and  lo,  by  it,  he  seemed  to  have  won  the  dear 
est  wish  of  his  own  heart  also,  if  the  older  woman 
could  look  back  into  the  past  and  recognize  out  of 
her  own  experience  the  signs  of  affection. 

"My  dear,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  softly,  draw 
ing  the  girl  to  her  and  pressing  a  kiss  upon  her  cheek, 
"I  trust  you  have  had  a  happy  birthday." 

"Oh,  yes,  Mrs.  Peyton,"  answered  Mary;  and  then, 
"Do  women  cry  when  they  are  very  happy?"  she 
asked. 

"They  always  do,  my  dear,"  replied  the  matron. 

"I  never  wanted  a  mother  so  much  as  now,"  whis 
pered  the  girl. 

She  dropped  her  head  on  the  elder  woman's  shoul 
der,  and  her  slender  body  shook  with  sobs. 

"Ah,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  folding  her  gently 
to  her  breast,  "no  one  can  quite  take  a  mother's  place, 
but  you  can  cry  here  on  my  shoulder;  for  that  I'll 
serve." 

"Indeed  I  shall  not,  then !"  said  the  capricious  girl, 
with  quick  change  of  mood,  raising  her  head,  forcing 
back  her  tears  and  forcing  forward  the  smiles.  "I 
have  had  the  happiest  birthday,  and  such  good  news! 
Good-night.  I  want  to  come  and  see  you  to-morrow 
morning,"  she  continued.  "Good-night,  Mr.  Pey 
ton." 

The  drive  home  of  the  Peyton  family  in  the  carriage 
was  a  quiet  one.  With  womanly  tact  Mrs.  Peyton 
had  cautioned  the  colonel  against  saying  anything  to 
Boyd  about  his  resolution  or  about  Mary  Annan. 

139 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Only  Willis,  with  his  inexhaustible  flow  of  spirits,  kept 
up  the  conversation,  which  was  more  of  a  soliloquy 
on  his  part  than  anything  else.  Willis  had  come  down 
with  the  carriage  expecting  to  join  in  the  dance,  the 
battery  not  having  been  ordered  away,  and  had  con 
cluded  to  go  back  with  the  family. 

"How  handsome  Hamilton  Pleasants  looked  when 
he  came  in,"  suddenly  said  his  sister,  during  one  of  the 
infrequent  pauses  of  his  lively  locution.  There  was  a 
strange  note  in  the  young  girl's  voice,  as  she  made  this 
harmless  remark,  which  no  one  caught  except  her  twin 
brother.  He  rattled  on  with  his  nonsense,  but  when 
Pink  felt  him  clasp  her  hand  with  one  of  his  own  and 
pat  it  gently  writh  the  other  in  the  darkness,  she  took 
great  comfort  in  the  action.  There  was  much  sym 
pathy  between  the  twins. 

Meanwhile  the  mother  and  her  other  son  sat  side 
by  side  in  the  carriage.  The  mother  patted  the  son 
softly  and  tenderly  from  time  to  time,  her  hands 
wandered  lovingly  over  his  person;  she  was  intensely 
happy  and  relieved,  but  he  was  not.  He  should  have 
been.  He  had  settled  a  grievous  question,  and  he  had 
won  the  greatest  prize  in  life.  Uncertainty  and  un 
rest  should  have  left  him,  but  they  had  not. 

Before  they  separated  for  the  night  the  old  colonel 
took  his  son  in  his  arms,  a  most  unusual  action  for 
him,  and  pressed  him  to  his  heart. 

"My  lad,"  he  said,  "I  am  very  proud  of  you.  I 
knew  it  would  come  right  in  the  end." 


CHAPTER    XVI 


A 


THE   SIFTING    OF   PEYTON 

H,  but  had  things  come  right,  after 
all  ?  There  are  decisions  which  do  not 
decide.  Was  this  one  of  them  ?  How 
beautiful  that  girl  had  looked,  the  very 
incarnation  of  Southern  beauty,  of  the 
South  he  loved.  Loved?  Yes,  the 
word  was  true.  He  loved  it  entirely. 
He  loved  the  people,  their  habits  and 
ways,,  he  loved  the  land,  he  loved 
the  water  that  washed  the  shores,  the 
mountains  that  lifted  their  crests  into 
the  heavens,  the  palm-tree,  the  live- 
oak,  the  magnolia,  the  flowers  that 
bloomed  on  them,  the  mocking-birds 
that  sang  in  them,  the  cotton  fields — 
aye,  he  loved  the  slaves  that  tilled  them.  He  would 
give  his  life  for  the  South  cheerfully,  gladly;  but  what 
was  he  to  do?  There  are  harder  things  than  life  to 
give. 

He  had  sworn  allegiance  to  the  United  States. 
Certainly  there  was  no  comparison  as  to  the  station 
of  the  two  in  his  estimation.  His  heart  cried  out  for 
the  State,  for  the  South,  but  that  something  he  could 
not  define  possessed  him  so  powerfully  that  in  the  still 

141 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

watches  of  that  long  night  it  almost  drove  him  to 
despair.  He  could  not  give  up  his  allegiance  to  the 
United  States.  Yet  he  had,  in  fact,  done  so! 

He  had  been  carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
men  at  the  dinner,  whom  from  his  earliest  childhood 
he  had  respected  and  venerated,  whose  opinions  he  had 
prized,  whose  approbation  had  been  his  highest  re 
ward.  There  was  good  old  Dr.  Bampney,  holy, 
saintly,  learned  priest,  who  had  indoctrinated  him  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  religion  he  professed;  and  Dr. 
Venosste  and  Judge  Annan,  and  his  fiery,  noble,  sol 
dierlike,  distinguished  old  father;  there  was  the  gover 
nor  of  the  great  State,  the  mayor  of  the  city,  edu 
cated  at  the  sister  school  to  his,  at  West  Point,  and 
all  the  others.  Could  they  be  wrong? 

And  there  was  Mary  Annan.  Oh,  what  a  picture 
she  had  made,  standing  erect  and  slender,  with  spark 
ling  eyes  and  heaving  bosom  and  flushed  cheeks,  the 
very  incarnation  of  that  ideal  of  romance  and  beauty 
around  which  the  chivalry  and  gallantry  of  the  South 
centred.  She  loved  him  at  last,  at  last ! 

The  fire  of  passion  which  flamed  in  his  own  heart 
had  communicated  its  heat  to  her.  This  glorious, 
radiant  creature,  just  budding  into  womanhood,  with 
all  the  passionate  possibilities  of  unlimited  devotion 
latent  in  her  being,  in  her  soul,  loved  him !  He  had 
kissed  her.  His  eyes  misted,  his  head  swam,  as  he 
thought  of  it.  He  had  pressed  his  own  lips  upon  the 
lips  that  had  mocked  him  in  girlish  laughter  through 
many  a  day  and  dream.  He  had  held  her  for  one 
brief  eternity  in  his  arms  unresisting.  Almost  he  had 

142 


THE    SIFTING   OF   PEYTON 

persuaded  her,  she  had  said.  The  mighty  change  that 
he  had  prayed  for  had  come  over  the  girl.  "Almost 
persuaded" — his  own  words!  Good  God,  he  had 
won  her  by  proffering  an  allegiance  he  could  not 
keep — by  adherence  to  a  cause  from  which  his  soul 
shrank ! 

It  was  out.  He  could  not  do  it.  Something  com 
pelled  him  to  be  true  to  the  uniform  that  he  wore,  to 
the  government  he  had  sworn  to  protect  and  defend. 
As  between  State  and  Nation,  with  every  desire  on 
earth  leading  him  to  State,  he  must  choose  Nation. 
He  had  to  do  it!  His  honor  demanded  it!  There 
was  no  other  way. 

Stop!  How  could  he  do  it?  It  would  break  his 
mother's  heart.  He  had  been  swept  away  by  his  own 
feelings.  No  one  had  forced  him,  he  had  been  under 
no  restraint.  He  had  given  a  public  testimony,  al 
most  a  pledge,  of  his  own  free  will.  Could  he  keep  it? 
Could  he  break  it?  What  would  his  father  say  if  he 
did?  He  had  folded  him  in  his  arms  a  short  time 
since  with  rare  and  touching  affection.  He  had  blessed 
him.  It  would  break  his  heart  too;  yet  there  could  be 
no  blessing  unless  his  own  conscience  approved  of  his 
own  action. 

And  Mary  Annan?  The  consequences  of  his  sur 
render  and  hers  rose  before  him.  He  had  been  a  cow 
ard,  a  craven,  a  scoundrel.  The  kiss  that  he  had 
taken  from  her,  unresisted,  burned  in  his  soul.  He 
had  stolen  it.  Gratitude  had  struck  at  her  defences. 
The  struggle  that  she  had  watched  with  bated  breath 
in  his  soul,  that  she  had  stimulated  in  every  way  that 

143 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

woman  could,  had  resulted,  as  she  thought,  in  victory 
for  her,  for  her  cause,  and  in  the  sweet  abandonment 
of  the  triumph  she  had  yielded.  A  pilferer,  he,  a  pur- 
loiner,  a  common  thief,  to  have  stolen  upon  false  pre 
tence  the  sweetness  of  a  woman's  lips  who  had  trusted 
in  his  honor.  That  he  loved  her  was  no  excuse.  The 
deeper  condemnation  there.  Honor?  Was  not  his 
pledged?  Or  was  it  already  lost? 

Under  the  spur  of  this  acute  indictment  he  wished, 
he  prayed,  that  he  might  die  that  night,  and  but  for 
the  precepts  in  which  he  had  been  trained  he  might 
have  put  an  end  to  a  life  which,  in  the  decision  forced 
upon  him,  brought  misery  everywhere,  even  to  him 
self. 

His  father,  his  mother,  his  love !  What  a  dream  she 
had  been  as  she  stood  in  the  light  with  the  blue  shawl 
fluttering  over  her  head  like  a  flag  as  the  soldiers 
marched  by  playing  the  "Mocking-Bird !"  He  liked 
her  best,  though,  as  he  saw  her  face  shining  in  the 
darkness  and  heard  her  whisper,  "Almost  you  per 
suade  me."  Almost,  almost  she  had  been  persuaded, 
and  by  a  mistake,  by  a  falsehood !  Oh,  the  deep  dam 
nation  of  his  deed!  What  could  he  do?  Was  not 
now  his  honor  as  a  gentleman  pledged  to  her?  There 
had  been  a  sacrament  of  love  and  union  in  that  sweet 
meeting  of  the  lips;  if  he  repudiated  her  cause  it  would 
be  a  sacrilege. 

Yes,  he  must  keep  to  the  letter  of  his  bond.  Satan 
had  bought  him  with  a  woman's  heart,  and  oh,  the  irony 
of  the  association !  The  woman  was  as  pure  as  a  child, 
as  innocent  as  an  angel.  Sometimes  a  gentleman  was 

144 


THE    SIFTING   OF    PEYTON 

called  upon  to  sacrifice  even  his  honor  to  a  woman; 
perhaps  this  was  such  a  call.  Yes,  he  would  do  it. 
When  he  had  kissed  her  he  had  given  away  the  right 
to  change.  He  would  be  a  soldier  of  the  South  if  it 
killed  him.  Please  God  it  might.  If  war  came  he 
should  seek  death  in  the  front  rank  and  end  it  all. 


CHAPTER    XVII 


"TO   THINE  OWN  SELF  BE  TRUE" 


T 


HERE  came  to  Peyton  during  that 
long,  ghastly  night  neither  sleep  nor 
dreams.  He  rose  very  early  in  the 
morning  before  the  others.  After  his 
agonizing  vacillations  he  had  resolved 
to  throw  conscience  and  everything 
behind  him  and  keep  to  the  South; 
but  he  could  not  bear  their  congratu 
lations  and  approbation  at  that  time. 
He  could  not  stand  them.  He  called 
for  his  horse,  and  in  the  gray  dawn 
galloped  down  through  the  sleeping 
town  and  out  upon  the  old  Shell  Road. 
Down  the  white  track  by  the  heav 
ing  sea,  under  the  moss-draped  live- 
oaks,  he  urged  his  willing  horse  as  if  by  rapid  motion 
he  could  shake  off  the  demon  of  uncertainty  which 
clutched  him  again.  Could  he  never  make  up  his 
mind,  he  thought?  He  did  not  know  what  to  do. 
In  every  direction  seemed  destruction.  Meantime  he 
could  ride.  He  set  his  teeth  hard  and  drove  the  spurs 
into  his  horse  as  if  the  physical  effort  could  displace 
the  mental  struggle.  On  and  on  he  sped, 

146 


"TO    THINE   OWN    SELF    BE   TRUE" 

Here  at  last  was  the  spot  where  they  had  stood 
when  Darrow  had  brought  the  news  of  the  secession. 
He  passed  it  by  like  the  wind.  If  he  gave  her  up, 
Darrow  would  win  her.  Of  that  he  was  certain.  He 
had  not  forgotten  how  she  had  wished  his  rival  God 
speed  the  night  before.  His  recantation  might  turn 
her  back  again.  Happy  Darrow !  There  was  no  tur 
moil  in  his  soul.  He  knew  his  duty.  He  saw  it 
plainly  and  did  it,  yet  the  reward  would  be  Peyton's 
in  the  end.  But  would  it? 

Miles  beyond  the  end  of  the  Shell  Road  he  drew 
rein  at  last  and  stared  out  over  the  gray  waters  of  the 
bay,  rolling  cold  and  leaden  under  the  lowering  sky. 
How  different  from  the  other  day!  The  chill  mel 
ancholy  of  the  surroundings  accorded  with  his  feelings. 
But  he  was  not  cold.  The  blood  ran  in  molten  riot 
in  his  veins  and  flushed  his  dark  face  a  dull  red  color. 
His  gaze  turned  at  last  toward  Fort  Morgan,  invisible, 
of  course,  on  account  of  the  distance,  yet  he  could  im 
agine  it.  He  had  been  there  many  a  time,  he  had 
sailed  every  foot  of  water  in  that  bay  in  his  own 
boat.  He  knew  it  as  he  knew  the  shore,  and  Mary 
Annan  had  been  with  him  often  too.  Could  he 
never  get  away  from  her?  The  old  fort,  which  for 
forty  years  had  borne  aloft  the  Stars  and  Stripes, 
to-day  was  under  another  banner.  The  troops  of 
Alabama  were  in  charge.  His  State,  his  troops — 
for  he  was  one  of  them — arrayed  against  the  United 
States! 

No,  by  the  God  above  him,  no ! 

He  wheeled  his  horse  sharply,  struck  his  rowels 
147 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

deep  into  the  quivering  flank  in  unconscious  cruelty, 
and  dashed  back  into  the  town.  On  and  on  he  gal 
loped,  retracing  his  earlier  ride.  The  trees  raced  by 
in  rapid  succession.  Presently  he  reached  the  Shell 
Road  again,  but  there  was  no  intermission  to  the  wild 
gallop  in  which  he  urged  his  horse,  and  every  hoof- 
beat  that  crashed  upon  the  white  way  hammered  out, 
—"Traitor!"  "Scoundrel!"  "Blackguard!"  "Lover!" 
and  moved  him  not.  Could  he  hold  to  this  last  de 
termination?  Was  it  in  him  to  hold  to  anything  at 
last? 

He  reeled  in  his  saddle  sometimes,  but  drove  his 
horse  recklessly  on.  Presently  he  entered  the  out 
skirts  of  the  town,  and  in  a  few  moments  he  was  in  the 
middle  of  it.  He  held  himself  straight  and  checked 
the  speed  of  the  horse  slightly,  though  he  came  down 
Emmanuel  Street  at  a  rattling  pace.  The  horse  had 
grown  as  reckless  as  he.  As  long  as  he  had  strength 
he  would  run  forward. 

Peyton  saw  those  about  him  as  if  in  a  haze.  He 
noticed  people  staring  after  him,  lifting  their  hats  to 
him.  When  two  or  three  were  assembled  by  chance 
he  heard  his  name  called  loudly.  As  he  turned  the 
corner  into  Dauphin  Street,  and  galloped  across  the 
square,  he  marked  the  Light  Infantry  Company  as 
sembling  before  its  armory.  They  sent  up  a  mighty 
cheer  as  he  passed  them  by  and  turned  up  St.  Francis 
Street.  They  were  calling  his  name,  too,  and  with 
approval.  Men  waved  their  hats  to  him  as  he  swept 
on.  What  did  it  mean?  Suddenly  it  flashed  upon 
him.  They  had  heard  that  he  had  decided,  and  they 

148 


"TO    THINE    OWN    SELF    BE    TRUE" 

were  greeting  him  with  joy  and  acclamation.  Ah, 
they  little  knew ! 

He  got  out  of  the  city  presently.  Now  he  turned 
into  the  gate  of  his  home.  He  must  meet  his  mother, 
his  father,  and  have  it  over.  He  suddenly  recalled 
that  last  night  on  the  porch  Mary  Annan  had  prom 
ised  to  come  and  see  his  mother  that  morning.  Per 
haps  she  was  there  now.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
he  shrank  from  meeting  her. 

As  he  cantered  up  the  long  avenue  from  the  gate 
to  the  house  his  pace  slackened.  His  grip  of  the  reins 
relaxed  and  the  exhausted  horse  dropped  into  a  walk. 
A  few  paces  brought  them  to  the  steps  leading  to  the 
porch,  where  he  threw  himself  from  the  saddle.  The 
horse  stopped  and  stood  with  drooping  head,  panting 
and  gasping,  his  sides  heaving  from  the  terrible  ride. 
Weariness  and  dejection  spoke  in  every  line  of  his 
body,  but  they  were  no  whit  more  marked  in  the  horse 
than  in  the  rider.  A  sharp  call  brought  some  of  the 
stable  boys,  and  as  the  horse  was  led  away  Peyton 
mounted  the  steps.  His  brother  met  him  at  the  door. 
With  a  quick  glance  of  sympathy  the  boy  divined 
something  of  the  situation. 

"They  are  all  in  the  drawing-room,  Boyd,"  he 
whispered,  hurriedly.  "Heavens,  old  fellow,  you  look 
like  death!  Go  up  to  your  room  and  change  your 
muddy  clothes.  Mary  Annan  and  Bob  Darrow  are  in 
there  too.  He  was  sent  down  from  the  arsenal  to  re 
port  to  the  governor,  and  came  here  afterward  to  see 
you.  The  rest  of  them  don't  know  you're  here. 
Where  have  you  been?  Brace  up,  old  man,  quick! 

149 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Here  is  a  letter  for  you.  Do  get  yourself  in  some 
sort  of  trim.  The  Light  Infantry  are  coming  down 
here.  They  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour.  They  have 
elected  you  captain  and  are  coming  to  notify  you. 
Hurry,  hurry!  I  will  keep  the  folks  busy  until  you 
get  down." 


CHAPTER   XVIII 


PEYTON  STICKS  TO  THE  FLAG 

EYTON  staggered  up  the  stairs  some 
how  and  went  to  his  own  room.  He 
threw  himself  upon  his  knees  before 
his  bed,  as  he  had  done  when  a  little 
child,  stretched  out  his  hands  before 
him  on  the  cover,  and  buried  his  face 
between  his  arms.  His  body  shook 
with  tearless  sobs.  He  could  form  no 
words  of  prayer,  but  in  that  attitude 
the  thoughts  of  his  heart  went  up  to 
God  in  broken  petitions.  Into  the 
agony  of  that  soul  the  Master  looked. 
To  those  unformed  prayers  he  made 
answer. 

Long  time  the  young  man  knelt 
there  growing  quieter  with  each  moment.  Presently 
he  lifted  his  head  and  his  glance  fell  upon  the  letter 
which  had  fallen  from  his  hands  and  lay  before  him 
on  the  bed.  His  face  was  paler  than  before  if  pos 
sible.  There  were  haggard,  ghastly  lines  in  it,  the 
grim  accompaniments  of  soul  torture,  yet  likewise  in 
dications  of  resolution.  That  curious  set  look,  that 
tightness  of  the  lips,  that  little  protrusion  of  the  chin, 
that  drawing  together  of  the  brows,  had  come  into  his 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

face  once  more.  Probably  that  look  they  gave  him 
would  never  leave  him  again.  He  had  passed  through 
the  fire.  He  had  been  tried  in  the  crucible  and  he  had 
not  been  broken. 

He  had  come  to  a  decision  final  and  irrevocable. 
He  would  do  his  duty — and  he  knew  now  what  it  was 
— no  matter  what  happened,  whose  heart  broke,  what 
appeals  would  be  made  to  him.  Friends,  family,  love 
— they  were  cast  into  the  balances  in  that  human  soul 
and  outweighed  by  another  claim.  As  he  rose  to  his 
feet  he  picked  up  the  letter.  It  was  an  official  en 
velope  addressed  in  a  familiar  hand.  Eagerly  he  tore 
it  open.  There  fell  from  it  his  long-expected  com 
mission  as  ensign  in  the  United  States  Navy  and  orders 
revoking  his  leave  and  directing  him  to  report  at  once 
to  Washington.  The  moment  of  decision  was  then  at 
hand  in  every  sense.  Such  an  order  brooked  no  de 
lay.  It  could  only  be  met  by  compliance  or  resigna 
tion.  With  these  official  papers  was  a  letter,  a  letter 
in  a  hand  he  knew.  Laying  the  others  by  his  side  he 
sat  down  on  the  bed  and  perused  the  few  lines.  The 
name  signed  to  it  was  little  known  outside  of  naval 
circles,  but  in  a  year  the  world  would  be  ringing  with 
it.  It  was  an  appeal,  an  appeal  to  his  conscience,  to 
his  honor,  to  his  sense  of  duty,  from  a  brother  officer, 
an  old  man  greatly  his  senior  in  rank,  who  had  been  a 
second  father  to  him;  an  appeal  to  his  loyalty,  to  his 
patriotism  as  an  officer;  and  finally  an  inspiring  ex 
pression  of  confidence  which  was  balm  to  his  soul, 
and  the  theme  of  the  letter,  the  text  of  it,  as  it  were, 
was,  "Stick  to  the  flag !" 

152 


PEYTON    STICKS    TO    THE    FLAG 

"Thank  God!"  he  said,  laying  the  letter  down. 
"Thank  God  that  I  had  decided  before  I  broke  the 
seal!" 

The  music  of  a  fife  and  drum  came  swelling  up  the 
road.  He  ran  to  the  window  that  looked  toward  the 
gate.  The  Light  Infantry  was  just  turning  into  the 
avenue  and  coming  toward  the  house.  The  soldiers 
were  accompanied  by  a  great  multitude  of  people  on 
foot,  on  horseback,  or  in  carriages.  What  had  Willis 
said?  They  had  elected  him  their  captain!  Him! 
He  laughed,  though  there  was  little  mirth  in  the  sound 
he  made. 

Well,  he  would  meet  them  fairly  and  squarely  now. 
He  would  tell  them  frankly  and  boldly  before  father, 
mother,  friends,  and  sweetheart.  Thank  God  they 
were  all  there !  It  could  all  be  done  in  one  blow. 
They  were  coming  nearer.  He  must  go  down  and 
meet  them. 

Stop !  He  could  not  meet  them  in  this  disordered 
dress. 

He  ran  to  his  closet,  drawing  off  his  clothes  as  he 
went,  and  then  put  on  others  that  he  selected  as 
quickly  as  possible.  The  troops  were  at  the  porch 
now.  He  could  hear  the  rattling  of  musket  stocks  on 
the  walk  as  they  were  brought  to  "order  arms"  and 
then  to  "parade  rest."  The  yard  seemed  filled  with 
people.  Hastily  buttoning  his  coat,  he  turned  to  meet 
Willis  in  the  door. 

"Good  heavens,  Boyd!"  said  the  boy,  glancing  at 
him  anxiously,  "what  did  you  do  that  for?  Won't 
you  take  them  off?  They  are " 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"No,"  said  his  brother,  brushing  by  him.  "Come 
on/' 

Followed  by  Willis,  Peyton  ran  down  the  stairs, 
through  the  hall,  and  out  on  the  porch.  There  im 
mediately  before  him  was  drawn  up  the  company  of 
riflemen.  Surrounding  them  was  a  great  concourse 
of  people.  On  the  porch  stood  his  father  and  his 
mother  and  sister.  The  old  man's  face  was  flushed 
with  pleasure,  his  eyes  were  shining  with  proud  and 
happy  light.  Animation  and  satisfaction  expressed 
itself  in  every  line  of  his  erect  figure.  On  one  side 
stood  Bob  Darrow,  handsomer  than  ever  in  his  becom 
ing  uniform. 

There  also,  looking  more  radiant  and  beautiful 
than  he  had  dared  even  to  dream  of  her,  was  Mary 
Annan.  The  color  was  burning  in  her  dark  cheek; 
her  eyes,  too,  were  ashine.  Her  eager  glance  dwelt 
upon  his  face  almost  lovingly  as  he  entered  the 
porch,  and  the  next  moment  comprehended  his  cloth 
ing  with  a  start  of  surprise.  Following  her  example, 
they  all  looked  at  his  tall,  slender  figure  and  noticed 
with  astonishment  that  he  was  clad  in  the  full  uniform 
of  an  ensign  in  the  United  States  Navy,  even  to  his 
sword,  which  he  held  lightly  by  the  scabbard  in  his  left 
hand.  But  they  had  no  time  to  comment  on  the 
singularity  of  his  action,  for  another  sharp  command 
rang  out : 

"Company!  Attention!  Carry  arms!  Present 
arms!" 

The  drill  of  the  company  was  excellent.  As  the 
men  lifted  the  muskets  from  the  ground  and  held  them 


PEYTON    STICKS    TO    THE    FLAG 

rigid  in  front  of  them,  a  faint  smile  of  approval  came 
into  Peyton's  face. 

"Colonel  Peyton,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  and  espe 
cially  Mr.  Boyd  Peyton,"  Johnstone,  the  lieutenant  of 
the  company,  began,  with  an  eloquent  gesture  compre 
hending  everybody,  "as  you  know,  the  Light  Infantry 
have  been  without  a  commander  for  over  a  month, 
owing  to  the  death  of  our  late  lamented  captain.  We 
have  been  carefully  deliberating  since  that  sad  event 
as  to  the  choice  of  our  next  commanding  officer.  We 
are  proud  to  believe,  sir,  that  it  is  a  high  honor  to 
command  a  company  like  this,  whose  ranks  are  filled 
with  the  best  blood  of  Alabama.  We  believe  that  if 
the  company  has  opportunity  to  show  its  soldierly 
qualities  upon  the  field  of  battle  it  will  prove  its  mettle, 
and  we  have  wanted  not  merely  a  commander  of  cour 
age  and  of  family,  to  lead  us — there  are  many  in  our 
ranks  who  possess  such  qualifications — but  we  want  a 
man  of  experience,  a  man  who  has  been  bred  to  the 
profession  of  arms  who  can  teach  us  what  we  lack.  It 
is  needless  to  say  that  our  thoughts  have  been  upon 
you,  Mr.  Peyton,  ever  since  your  return  to  the  home 
of  your  fathers  last  month.  But,  sir — you  will  forgive 
me,  I  am  sure — although  we  were  morally  certain,  we 
had  no  public  assurance  until  last  night  as  to  your 
feelings  toward  the  Southern  Cause.  But  the  story 
of  your  decision  has  been  noised  about  by  your  fellow- 
citizens  to  our  great  satisfaction,  sir.  The  company 
was  assembled  this  morning  and  we  held  an  election, 
and  I  have  the  honor  to  inform  you,  sir,  that  you  have 
been  unanimously  elected  to  be  our  captain.  God  save 

155 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

the  State  of  Alabama  and  the  Confederate  States  of 
America  that  shall  be!" 

"Three  cheers  for  our  new  captain !"  said  the  first 
sergeant,  stepping  forth  from  the  ranks  as  Johnstone 
finished  his  address. 

But  they  were  allowed  no  opportunity  to  give  a 
cheer  or  make  a  sound.  What  was  said  by  their  newly 
elected  captain  froze  the  hurrah  on  their  lips,  almost 
stopped  the  beating  of  their  hearts. 

"Stop!"  instantly  cried  Peyton,  in  a  clear  voice 
heard  on  the  very  outskirts  of  the  assemblage.  "You 
are  mistaken,  gentlemen.  In  part,  at  least,  I  did  in 
some  degree  engage  myself  to  the  South  last  night." 

"In  some  degree !"  cried  a  girl's  voice,  piercing  the 
awful  silence,  shrill  with  surprise  and  horror. 

It  was  Mary  Annan. 

"Carried  away  by  the  enthusiasm  of  the  party,"  went 
on  Peyton,  steadily,  looking  down  at  the  surprised, 
awe-stricken  faces  of  the  men  before  him,  although  the 
sharp  cry  of  the  girl  pierced  his  very  soul,  "moved  by 
the  example  of  venerated  friends,  an  honored  father, 
and  influenced  by " 

For  the  life  of  him  he  could  not  prevent  his  glance 
then  from  sweeping  around  until  it  rested  upon  the 
face  of  the  woman  he  loved,  standing  by  the  railing, 
which  she  grasped  with  astonishing  intensity,  and  star 
ing  at  him  with  a  horror-struck,  bewildered,  piteous 
face  scarcely  less  white  than  his  own.  The  cold  sweat 
beaded  upon  his  brow  as  he  looked.  He  felt  some 
thing  rising  in  his  throat  and  choking  him.  His  heart 
struck  him  like  a  trip-hammer.  Still  he  persisted. 

156 


PEYTON    STICKS    TO   THE    FLAG 

"For — various  reasons,  gentlemen,  which  need  not 
be  mentioned,"  he  continued  more  slowly,  moistening 
his  lips  nervously,  but  still  resolute  to  go  on,  "I — I — 
forgot  myself." 

A  deep  groan  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  colonel  be 
hind  him.  The  old  man  put  his  hand  to  his  head 
and  staggered  as  if  he  would  have  fallen.  The  bitter 
ness  of  death  was  with  him,  and  added  to  it  the  agonies 
of  shame.  His  son  a  traitor!  Oh,  God,  could  that 
be? 

"My  son,  my  son!"  cried  his  mother,  in  a  voice 
tense  with  emotion.  "Think!  Think!  What  is  it 
you  are  saying?" 

Darrow  stepped  across  the  porch  and  stood  with 
clenched  hands  and  threatening  brow  beside  his  life 
long  friend,  the  incarnation  of  force  and  menace.  In 
his  soul,  too,  Mary  Annan's  bitter  cry  was  ringing. 
Peyton  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left. 

"Gentlemen,"  he  continued,  moistening  his  dry, 
parched  lips  again  and  again,  "I  love  the  South.  My 
heart  is  with  her.  Here  are  father,  mother,  friends, 
and — the  woman  I  love  as  well.  I  would  give  my  life 
blood  for  them,  but  I  cannot  give  up  my  honor.  My 
duty  constrains  me.  I  am  an  officer" — with  a  magnifi 
cent  gesture  he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  cap  and  removed 
it — "of  the  United  States."  Was  his  strength  coming 
back  to  him  at  the  sound  of  that  beloved  name?  Yes, 
yes,  thank  God !  He  went  on  more  firmly :  "I  have 
sworn  allegiance  to  the  United  States.  I  must  be 
faithful  to  my  duty.  Here  is  my  commission  as  en 
sign,  here  are  my  orders  to  report  at  Washington  at 

157 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

once.  I  must  go !  I  cannot  be  your  captain,  gentle 
men,  much  as  I  appreciate  the  high  honor,  because  I 
must  serve  the  United  States." 

"To  hell  with  the  damned  traitor!"  shrieked  a  man 
in  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  lifting  his  fist  in  wrath, 
and,  catching  his  example,  the  yard  rang  with  cries  and 
shouts. 

"Down  with  him!" 

"Mob  him !" 

"Let's  ride  him  on  a  rail !" 

"Curse  the  nigger-lover!" 

"Down  with  the  black  Republican !" 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  old  colonel,  galvanized  into 
life  by  this  awful  display  of  passion,  "no  more  of  this ! 
I  beg  you,  no  violence.  This — that  was — my  son  has 
made  his  choice.  Leave  him.  Leave  us,  I  beg  of 
you.  Let  him  go  forth  alone.  The  contempt  of 
friends,  the  hatred  of  acquaintances,  repudiation  by  his 
father  and  mother,  and  by  those  who  loved  him,  will 
be  punishment  enough." 

Peyton's  mother  bowed  her  head  upon  her  daugh 
ter's  shoulder,  and  her  body  shook  with  sobs.  Mary 
Annan  still  stared  as  if  fascinated  at  the  immobile  face 
of  Peyton.  Why,  why — even  in  that  awful  moment, 
the  query  flashed  into  the  girl's  mind — had  she  ever 
called  him  a  dreamer? 

He  stood  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the 
left,  staring  ahead  at  the  company  of  Light  Infantry 
with  a  face  as  set,  as  hard,  as  cold,  as  if  carven  out 
of  marble. 

At  his  side  stood  Darrow,  shudders  running  over  his 

158 


PEYTON    STICKS    TO    THE   FLAG 

body.  One  touch,  one  spark,  and  he  would  have 
struck  down  his  whilom  friend.  Peyton  realized  this. 
He  was  sick  with  horror  at  the  thought.  He  shud 
dered  too.  Was  it  fear?  What  was  it?  Was  he  a 
coward  indeed?  By  the  living  God  he  would  stand 
there  upon  that  porch  and  face  them  all  if  the  next 
heartbeat  were  to  be  his  last. 

"We  came  for  a  captain,"  said  the  first  sergeant, 
suddenly,  as  the  tumult  and  the  shoutings  died  away, 
"and  we  are  going  to  have  one.  By  your  leave, 
leftenant.  Comrades,  I  nominate  for  our  captain, 
Sergeant  Bob  Darrow,  of  the  cavalry,  if  he'll  take  it." 

"Darrow!  Let's  have  Darrow!"  shouted  the 
others. 

"Those  who  are  in  favor  of  the  election  of  Ser 
geant  Robert  Darrow  will  say  'Aye,'  "  said  the  lieuten 
ant,  promptly. 

A  great  shout  of  approval  burst  from  the  company. 

"Men,"  said  Darrow,  hoarsely  and  brokenly,  "I  ap 
preciate  the  honor.  After  the  treachery  we  have 
heard  here  I  can  only  do  my  part  as  a  loyal  son  of  the 
State.  I  accept  the  office,  and,  please  God,  if  the 
battle  come  may  we  be  found  together  in  the  front 
ranks." 

The  old  colonel's  face,  no  less  white  than  that  of  his 
son,  turned  with  stately  calmness  to  the  young  soldier 
standing  like  a  demigod  on  the  steps  of  the  porch. 
No  wonder  the  physical  nature  of  Mary  Annan  and  of 
many  another  woman  rejoiced  in  the  splendid  perfec 
tion  of  the  young  man. 

"My  boy,"  cried  the  colonel,  seizing  Darrow  by  the 
159 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

hand,  "you  are  a  true  son  of  the  South.  We  are  all 
proud  of  you." 

And  Mary  Annan  fled  to  the  new  captain's  side  and 
took  his  hand  again,  and  would  have  kissed  it  in  the 
excitement  of  that  moment,  but  he  would  not  permit 
her. 

"I  wished  you  Godspeed  last  night,"  she  said.  "I 
do  it  again  now,  with  more  heart  than  before." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  colonel,  as  the  cheering  died 
away,  "you  will  pardon  me  if  I  say  I  cannot  ask  you  to 
partake  of  my  hospitality  under  the  present  circum 
stances." 

"We  await  your  commands,  Captain  Darrow,"  said 
Lieutenant  Johnstone. 

"March  your  men  to  the  armory,"  said  Darrow.  "I 
will  be  there  in  half  an  hour." 

"You  will  understand  me,  friends  and  neighbors,  I 
am  sure,"  said  the  colonel  to  the  others,  "if  I  now  beg 
you  to  leave  us  alone." 

The  group  waited  silent  and  motionless  on  the  porch 
until  the  last  straggler  had  departed  from  the  gate. 


CHAPTER   XIX 


DRIVEN   AWAY 

OW,  sir,"  said  the  colonel,  turning  to 
his  oldest  son. 

"Wait,  sir!"  cried  the  girl,  inter 
rupting  him  and  coming  close  to  Pey 
ton.  "Do  you  call  yourself  a  gentle 
man?"  she  asked  him,  fiercely,  her 
hands  twisting  together  nervously  in  a 
writhing,  anguished  motion.  "Last 
night  on  the  porch,  after  you  decided, 
you  said  words  of  love  to  me — and  I 
— I  believed  in  you.  Oh,  hear  the  in 
famy,  all !  I  believed  in  you,  I  trusted 
you.  You  put  your  arm  around  me; 
I  did  not  resist.  You  kissed  me — " 
She  brushed  her  lips  with  the  back  of 
her  hand  in  ineffable  scorn,  as  she 
spoke,  with  a  constantly  rising  voice. 
"Almost  you  persuaded  me  to  love  you.  I  gloried  in 
you!  Oh,  was  it  a  lie?  Did  you  do  it  all  to  win  a 
woman's  lips  ?  Are  you  a  thief  and  a  coward  as  well 
as  a  traitor?" 

Peyton  attempted  to  speak,  but  before  he  could  do 
so  Darrow  grasped  him  roughly  by  the  shoulders  with 
both  hands. 

161 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Damn  you,  you  infernal  villain !"  he  shouted,  shak 
ing  him  to  and  fro  in  his  powerful  arms.  "Did  you 
dare  to  do  that?  By  God,  I'll  kill  you  where  you 
stand!" 

But  with  a  strength  surprising  in  one  so  slender 
Peyton  dragged  himself  away.  His  hand  went  to  the 
hilt  of  his  sword;  the  blade  flashed  in  the  air  as  he  partly 
drew  it  from  the  scabbard. 

"Stop !"  cried  the  colonel.  "Put  up  your  weapon, 
sir !  Your  friends  will  need  it,  and  on  this  porch  we 
fight  only  with  gentlemen." 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  proudly, 
yet  wincing  under  his  father's  sneer,  thrusting  his 
sword  back  into  its  scabbard;  "they  will  need  it,  and 
they  shall  have  it." 

But  his  resentment  at  once  gave  place  to  other  feel 
ings.  Those  before  him  were  his  all.  Might  he  not 
persuade  them,  justify  himself? 

"I  can  understand  how  you  must  feel,  father — all  of 
you,"  he  said.  "Miss  Mary,  you  did  persuade  me  last 
night.  I  intended  to  resign  then.  I  kissed  you  with 
as  loving  and  as  true  a  heart  as  ever  beat  in  a  man's 
breast.  For  that  kiss  I  am  deeply  sorry,  and  I  humbly 
beg  your  pardon.  Anything  you  can  say  of  me  can 
not  be  as  deep  as  the  recollection  of  it.  But  it  was 
not  in  false  pretence.  I  was  yours  then,  and  yours, 
father,  and  yours,  mother,  and  yours,  Darrow.  Now 
I  belong  to  my  country." 

"Thank  God!"  cried  Mary  Annan,  passionately,  "I 
didn't  promise  you  anything.  It  was  gratitude — 
gratitude,  do  you  hear? — rather  than  love.  I  thought 

162 


DRIVEN   AWAY 

possibly  I  might  love  you,  but  I  did  not.  I  hate  you ! 
I  loathe  you !  If  you  were  in  my  heart  I'd  tear  it  out 
and  trample  upon  it  to  put  you  out  of  my  recollec 
tion." 

She  stamped  upon  the  porch  as  she  spoke.  Then 
she  shrank  nearer  to  Darrow,  laying  her  hand  con 
fidently  upon  his  strong  arm  as  if  she  had  found  a  pro 
tector.  She  felt  outraged,  and  the  honest  love  and 
admiration  of  the  young  soldier  were  grateful  to  her. 

"Say  the  word,  Miss  Mary,"  said  that  young  man, 
instantly,  "and  I  will  kill  him  where  he  stands." 

"That  would  be  an  easy  solution,"  cried  Peyton, 
bitterly.  "I  would  welcome  it  indeed,  were  you  to 
kill  me  like  a  gentleman." 

"I  would  kill  you  like  a  dog!"  hissed  Darrow,  step 
ping  forward. 

But  two  people  intervened ;  one,  strange  to  say,  was 
Mary  Annan,  who  caught  his  outstretched  hand  with 
a  sudden  fierce  gesture,  and  the  other  was  young  Wil 
lis,  who  sprang  before  his  brother. 

"I'm  only  a  boy,"  he  said,  coolly.  "I  don't  agree 
with  Boyd,  here,  but  I'm  a  Peyton,  and  nobody  shall 
speak  so  of  him,  much  less  lay  hand  upon  him,  in  my 
presence." 

"Thank  you,  Willis,"  said  Peyton,  slowly.  "But 
don't  get  into  any  difficulty  on  my  account;  I  can  take 
care  of  myself.  Father " 

"Call  me  not  by  that  name,  sir!"  said  the  old  man, 
sternly. 

"Mother !"  he  continued,  stepping  toward  the  wom 
an  who  bore  him,  and  he  noticed  with  added  pain 

163 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

that  all  the  youth  fulness  and  charm  he  had  marvelled 
at  last  night  had  gone  from  her  face,  leaving  it  gray 
and  broken  and  old. 

As  he  stretched  out  his  arms  toward  her  she  made  a 
step  forward,  but  the  colonel  caught  her  by  the  arm 
and  swept  her  to  his  breast,  saying,  with  cold  deter 
mination,  as  to  a  stranger : 

"This  lady  is  my  wife,  and  is  nothing  to  you." 

"Pink!"  cried  Boyd,  in  desperation,  turning  to  his 
sister  as  a  last  resort. 

But  Pink  had  gone  to  Mary  Annan,  and  the  girls 
were  clasped  in  each  other's  arms.  Pink  was  crying 
bitterly,  but  Mary  Annan,  with  her  head  high,  stood 
by  Bob  Darrow,  with  a  look  scarcely  less  resolute  and 
infinitely  more  bitter  on  her  face  than  that  on  Pey 
ton's. 

"Listen,  sir!"  said  his  father.  "You  have  made 
your  choice.  You  must  go.  I  wish  neither  to  see 
you  nor  hear  of  you,  and  from  henceforth  you  shall 
be  as  one  dead  to  us.  Your  name  shall  not  be  men 
tioned  in  this  house.  If  any  child  of  mine  shall  have 
the  inclination  I  forbid  him  or  her  to  hold  any  com 
munication  with  you.  Here  is  no  longer  home  for 
you.  Your  trunk  shall  be  sent  to  the  station  to-night. 
The  money  I  have  held  in  trust  for  you  from  your 
grandfather's  estate,  amounting  to  some  five  thousand 
dollars,  will  be  paid  over  to  you  at  the  bank  to-day  at 
three  o'clock.  I  shall  expect  you  to  be  there  to  re 
ceive  it.  That  is  all.  Now  you  may  go.  We  will 
endeavor  to  forget  the  disgrace  you  have  put  upon  us, 
and  I  pray  God  I  may  never  see  your  face  again." 

164 


DRIVEN    AWAY 

A  low  groan  burst  from  Boyd  Peyton's  lips.  He 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands  and  shook  like  a  woman. 

"A  horse  is  at  your  service,"  continued  the  colonel, 
impassively,  "to  carry  you  into  town.  Leave  him  at 
the  stable,  as  usual." 

"I  will  take  nothing,  sir,"  answered  Peyton  at  last, 
nerving  himself  to  face  the  inevitable — "nothing  but 
the  uniform  and  the  sword  I  wear.  I  won't  ask  any  of 
you  to  break  father's  command  to  speak  to  me,"  he 
continued,  looking  at  the  rest  through  misted  eyes.  "I 
will  just  say  good-by  to  you  all,  and  may  God  bless 
you.  I  dare  not  ask  father  to  bless  me.  You  don't 
know  how  terrible  this  has  been  to  me,  but  I  am  a 
Peyton,  too.  I  have  my  ideas  of  honor,  and  I  must 
abide  by  them.  Miss  Mary,  I  am  as  earth  beneath 
your  feet,  but,  believe  me,  I  have  truly  loved  you  and 
I  shall  love  you  to  the  very  end." 

There  was  a  little  silence.  No  one  answered,  and 
for  a  moment  no  one  moved.  Finally  Bob  Darrow 
slowly  swung  on  his  heel  and  deliberately  turned  his 
back  on  his  former  friend.  The  affection  between 
them  was  gone,  the  friendship  forever  broken.  Mary 
Annan  stared  at  him,  her  lip  still  curling.  Pink  averted 
her  head.  The  old  colonel,  still  holding  his  wife  in 
his  arms,  looked  out  beyond  him  through  the  trees 
over  the  head  of  the  boy  who  would  never  gallop  down 
the  long  avenue  again.  That  silence,  that  ghastly 
silence,  was  broken  only  by  the  sobs  of  his  sister  and 
by  the  thin,  low  moan  of  his  mother. 

"Oh,  Willis !"  she  cried  to  her  husband,  "he  is  my 
boy!  Do  not  drive  him  off!" 

165 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"For  God's  sake,  sir,"  said  the  colonel,  furiously,  "if 
you  have  a  vestige  of  the  instinct  of  a  gentleman  left 
in  you,  go !" 

Peyton  turned  away  instantly,  and  slowly  descended 
the  steps,  each  footfall  upon  the  boards  sounding  like 
a  death-knell  to  those  left  behind. 

"By  heaven!"  cried  Willis,  impetuously,  as  his 
brother  stepped  rigidly  down  the  path,  "I  can't  stand 
it,  and  I  won't!" 

He  sprang  down  the  steps  and  in  a  moment 
reached  his  brother's  side. 

"Good-by,  Boyd,  old  fellow,"  he  cried,  "  I  can't  let 
you  go  without  a  word.  We  don't  think  as  you  do, 
but  we  know  you  will  do  your  duty,  and  I  will  say 
God  bless  you  for  father  and  mother  and  Pink  and  my 
self.  God  bless  you,  and  some  day  it  will  come  out 
all  right." 

There  were  tears  in  the  boy's  eyes.  He  put  his  arm 
about  his  brother's  neck  and  kissed  him,  and  then 
stopped  on  the  walk  and  watched  him  proudly  go  on 
and  on. 

They  stood  in  silence  until  he  turned  out  of  the 
gate  and  disappeared  down  the  road,  never  looking 
back.  So  Boyd  Peyton  left  the  home  of  his  fathers. 

"Willis,"  cried  the  colonel,  sharply,  as  Boyd  dis 
appeared,  "I  forgive  you  this  time,  but  try  me  no 
more.  Help  me  to  carry  your  mother  indoors.  I 
am  afraid  she  has  fainted.  Daughter,  run  for  some 
restorative." 


DRIVEN    AWAY 

"Miss  Mary,"  said  Darrow,  as  they  were  left  alone. 
"Is  it  true?" 

"Is  what  true?" 

'That  he  kissed  you." 

"Yes.     Do  you  hate  me  for  it?" 

"I  love  you." 

"Would  you — do  you  wish  me " 

"Do  you  love  him?" 

"I  hate  him!"  she  cried,  stamping  her  foot  again. 

"Did  you  love  him  last  night?" 

"I  thought  so,  but  now  I  know  I  never  did.  I 
never  shall.  It  is  all  over  with.  I  despise  him.  I — 
you  said  you  loved  me.  Do  you  want  me  now?  Will 
you  take  me?" 

Her  face  was  flushed  with  passion.  She  was  beside 
herself  with  rage  and  wounded  pride.  It  was  evident 
that  she  scarcely  knew  what  she  was  saying  or  doing, 
as  she  stretched  out  her  arms  to  him.  It  was  not  love, 
but  what  was  it?  Jealousy,  resentment,  revenge,  or 
what?  The  temptation  was  great.  If  he  took  her  at 
Iher  word  he  might  bind  her  to  him.  A  week  before 
foe  would  have  done  it — he  would  have  leaped  at  the 
chance;  but  now  he  was  changed.  It  was  different. 
Not  thus  would  he  win  her.  He  showed  his  mag 
nanimity  when  he  spoke,  and  the  girl,  recognizing 
it,  almost  loved  him. 

"I  love  you,"  he  said.  "God  only  knows  how  I 
love  you.  To  call  you  mine,  to  win  you  for  my  wife, 
:is  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart.  But  I  can't  take  you 
ithis  way.  You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying.  It 
would  not  be  fair  to  you.  I  wonder  if  you  know  what 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

it  costs  me  to  say  this.  No,  you  can't  know,  but  you 
will  later.  Meantime  you  must  know,  and  by  this, 
that  I  am  yours,  all  of  me  is  yours,  and  that  the  day 
you  can  say  to  me  in  your  sober  senses  what  you  have 
just  said  will  make  me  the  happiest  man  on  earth. 
Good-by;  thank  you,  and  God  bless  you." 

He  bent  low  over  her  hand,  kissed  it  fervently,  and 
left  her  alone.  A  soldier  and  a  gentleman  indeed, 
and  never  nearer  to  his  desire  than  in  that  brave  re 
nunciation. 

There  was  a  bit  of  paper  on  the  floor,  lying  at  her 
feet.  It  was  the  last  thing  Peyton  had  touched.  She 
had  observed  it  mechanically  at  the  time  that  it  had 
fallen  from  his  hand.  It  was  an  open  letter,  and  he 
had  touched  it.  She  picked  it  up.  It  was  a  brief  note. 
Throwing  conscience  to  the  winds  she  read  it.  The 
name  signed  at  the  end  was  an  unfamiliar  one  to  her. 

"Farragut!  David  G.  Farragut!  Who  can  he  be? 
Oh,  is  it  he  who  has  changed  Boyd's  resolution  and 
broken  my  heart?" 

She  crushed  the  paper  in  her  hand. 

"Oh,  my  God !"  she  cried,  as  she  turned  toward  the 
house.  "Was  ever  woman  so  cruelly  used  as  I?  and, 
shame  upon  me,  I  love  him  still!  No,  no,  I  hate 
him!" 

Poor  Peyton,  poor  Darrow,  poor  Mary  Annan ! 


CHAPTER    XX 


T 


A  WANDERER   AND    A  VAGABOND 

HE  distance  between  the  Peyton  place 
and  the  town  was  several  miles.  Boyd 
Peyton  was  so  exhausted  by  the  scenes 
through  which  he  had  passed  that  he 
felt  it  would  be  almost  impossible  for 
him  to  drag  himself  into  the  town. 
His  brain  reeled  from  the  tremendous 
strain  which  he  had  just  undergone. 
The  road  swam  before  his  dazed  vis 
ion.  These  moments  alone  that  fol 
lowed  were  harder  to  bear  than  that 
crucial  half  hour  on  the  porch.  Then 
he  had  the  stimulus  of  action,  the  ex 
citement  of  doing  something.  Now  it 
was  just  a  dull  plod,  plod,  plod,  on 
the  white  road  toward  the  town. 

On  his  way  to  town  people  passed 
Boyd  Peyton  in  wagons  or  buggies  and  marvelled  at 
the  unusual  spectacle  of  a  young  man  in  a  naval  uni 
form,  carrying  a  sword,  walking  with  drooping  head 
on  the  public  road.  One  or  two  who  recognized  him 
stopped  and  offered  him  a  seat.  He  refused  these 
kindly  proffers,  however,  with  a  silent  shake  of  his 
head,  so  they  were  forced  to  pass  him  by.  When  he 
entered  the  city  he  found  that  the  story  of  the  scene 

169 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

had  been  repeated  by  those  who  had  participated  in  it, 
or  witnessed  it,  and  he  had  become  a  marked  man. 

He  roused  himself  here,  lifted  his  head  up,  sum 
moned  his  strength  again,  and  walked  boldly  forward. 
People  ran  to  the  doors  of  stores  as  he  came  along 
the  street  and  stared  after  him,  for  the  most  part  with 
curious,  although  sometimes  with  set,  hard,  malignant 
faces;  and  there  were  women — not  many,  but  some 
— who  looked  at  him  with  pity.  The  ragamuffins  of 
the  streets  called  after  him  here  and  there,  and  some 
one  threw  a  stone  in  a  puddle  of  muddy  water  by  which 
he  happened  to  pass,  and  spattered  him.  Those  whom 
he  had  known  intimately  in  days  gone  by  avoided  his 
gaze,  turned  aside  as  he  approached,  or  else  resolutely 
gave  him  the  cut  direct  by  looking  him  full  in  the 
face  and  giving  no  sign  of  recognition. 

His  was  not  a  pleasant  face  to  look  upon  then. 
Such  sternness  of  repression,  such  mortal  agony,  be 
neath  the  outward  iron  of  his  visage,  could  hardly  be 
imagined.  People  who  saw  it  never  forgot  it.  He 
walked  slowly  along  his  via  dolorosa  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  seeking  no  recognition, 
paying  no  attention  to  anyone.  His  mind  was  in  a 
frightful  turmoil.  It  was  reaching  back  to  that  awful 
scene  on  the  porch.  It  was  reaching  out  to  the  lonely 
misery  of  the  future. 

He  was  not  entirely  oblivious  to  the  surroundings 
either,  and  there  was  forced  upon  him  the  necessity 
for  a  decision  about  what  ordinarily  would  have  been 
a  trivial  matter.  Sometimes  trivial  matters  in 
great  crises  save  us  from  going  mad.  The  train  for 

170 


A   WANDERER   AND    A   VAGABOND 

the  North  which  he  had  resolved  to  take  did  not  leave 
until  evening.  It  was  not  more  than  two  o'clock  now, 
and  he  did  not  know  where  to  go,  where  to  stay, 
during  the  intervening  hours.  One  thing  was  certain. 
He  had  almost  reached  the  limit  of  his  strength.  Un 
less  he  could  get  some  resting-place  he  would  collapse 
in  the  street. 

There  was  another  duty  to  be  done.  He  must  go 
to  the  bank.  The  little  fortune  his  father  had  spoken 
of  was  rightfully  his  own.  It  had  come  to  him  through 
his  grandfather,  and  he  was  resolved  to  take  it.  A 
messenger  from  his  father's  place  had  passed  him  on 
the  road,  and  the  matter  was  undoubtedly  arranged. 
To  the  bank  on  Royal  Street,  therefore,  he  turned  his 
steps.  Old  Mr.  Pleasants,  the  cashier,  whom  he  had 
known  from  his  childhood,  who  had  always  treated 
him  with  affectionate  cordiality,  met  him  at  the  door. 
Instead  of  giving  him  an  invitation  to  come  into  the 
private  office,  as  usual,  for  a  little  chat  while  the  details 
of  business  were  arranged,  the  old  man,  without  a 
word  of  greeting  or  recognition,  sternly  motioned  him 
to  a  seat  near  the  window,  and  coldly  indicated  that  he 
could  remain  there  until  the  necessary  formalities  were 
concluded.  The  money,  which  he  took  in  New  York 
drafts,  was  fairly  flung  at  him. 

He  stepped  out  of  the  bank  door  and  looked  hope 
lessly  up  and  down  the  street.  There  was  the  Battle 
House,  the  principal  hotel  of  the  place.  Well,  why 
not  go  there?  He  resolved  to  do  so.  He  noticed  that 
the  men  shrank  from  him  as  he  entered  the  rotunda 
and  walked  up  to  the  desk. 

171 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"I  want  a  room  until  this  evening,  and  a  meal  sent 
to  it,"  he  said,  picking  up  the  pen  preparatory  to 
signing  his  name  on  the  register. 

"Very  sorry,  sir,"  answered  the  clerk,  curtly,  not  to 
say  rudely,  "but  we  have  no  vacant  rooms." 

Peyton  understood  and,  too  proud  to  argue,  turned 
and  walked  out  of  the  hotel.  Certainly  he  never  cal 
culated  upon  this.  He  had  not  realized  the  intensity 
of  feeling  which  had  been  evoked  by  the  situation, 
and  which  his  action  seemed  to  have  brought  to  a 
head.  In  that  whole  community  he  seemed  to  be  ab 
solutely  alone.  The  veriest  wandering  dog,  the  poor 
est  vagabond  out  of  the  streets,  could  win  more  recog 
nition  and  find  more  kindness  than  he. 

Mastering  the  trembling  of  his  limbs  by  a  violent 
effort,  he  struck  out  aimlessly  across  the  square,  in 
tending  vaguely  to  go  out  on  the  Shell  Road,  any 
where,  away  from  the  observation  of  the  curious,  which 
galled  his  sensitive  nature  beyond  control,  when  he 
was  accosted  in  kindly  tones  by  Dr.  Venosste.  He 
nearly  gave  way  as  he  heard  the  familiar  voice.  Sup 
posing  his  old  friend  was  ignorant  of  the  situation  he 
at  first  paid  no  attention  to  it,  but  the  doctor  caught 
him  by  the  arm  and  walked  along  by  his  side. 

"Good  gracious,  Boyd !"  he  said,  "you  are  as  white 
as  death,  and  trembling  like  an  aspen !  Where  are  you 
going?" 

"I — I  don't  know,"  answered  Peyton. 

"Come  with  me." 

"I  don't  believe — you  know — what  I  have  done," 
said  Peyton,  resisting. 

172 


A    WANDERER   AND    A   VAGABOND 

"I  know  all  about  it,  my  boy,"  said  Dr.  Venosste, 
with  kindly  insistence.  "We  don't  think  alike  on 
some  things,  but  you  have  a  right  to  your  opinions. 
I  believe  you  entertain  them  honestly.  If  your  honor 
calls  you  to  take  the  course  you  did  to-day  I,  at  least, 
shall  never  blame  you.  Meanwhile,  you  must  come 
with  me." 

He  turned  the  young  man  about,  and  they  walked 
rapidly  down  Joachim  Street  toward  the  doctor's 
house. 

"You  must  have  something  to  eat  and  get  a  few 
hours'  rest.  If  you  don't  you  will  faint  here  on  the 
street." 

"I  must  not  do  that,  Doctor." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  the  doctor.  "Here  we 
are  at  last.  Now  cpme  in." 

"Doctor,  who  told  you  about — about — every 
thing?"  Peyton  asked  as  he  sank  exhausted  in  an  easy 
chair  in  the  library. 

"It  is  all  over  town,  Boyd,"  replied  the  doctor, 
frankly.  "I  heard  it  from  a  dozen  sources." 

"I  suppose  everybody  blames  me  dreadfully?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Dr.  Venosste,  "most  people  do. 
And  they  blame  you  the  more  because  last  night  they 
thought  you  had  decided.  They  don't  like  vacilla 
tion." 

The  doctor  spoke  kindly,  but  the  truth  of  the  ac 
cusation  cut  the  young  man.  He  had  behaved 
shabbily.  He  should  have  decided  it  at  once.  Well, 
what  difference  now?  It  was  all  over. 

"They  are  excited  by  the  situation,"  continued  his 
173 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

friend;  "their  passions  are  aroused.  I  fear  it  will  be 
some  time  before  they  will  think  of  you  differently. 
But  it  makes  no  difference  to  me;  I  want  you  to  know 
that.  This  house  is  yours,  so  long  as  you  choose  to 
remain  in  it,  and  I  shall  be  honored  to  have  you  here. 
I  can  respect  the  courage  that  it  must  have  required 
for  you  to  take  such  a  step.  Your  conscience  and  your 
reasons  are  your  own.  Your  friendship  is  mine." 

"But,  Dr.  Venosste,"  said  Boyd,  "they  will  visit  this 
kindness  to  me  upon  you.  You  would  better  let  me 
go." 

"No,  no/*  said  the  doctor,  firmly,  "I  think  my  posi 
tion  is  sufficiently  secure  to  enable  me  to  do  what  I 
please.  And  whether  it  be  or  not  I  shall  do  it.  Now 
you  must  have  something  to  eat,"  he  said,  as  his  ser 
vant,  who  had  been  previously  directed  by  him,  en 
tered  the  room  with  a  tray  containing  a  substantial 
luncheon. 

"No,"  urged  the  doctor,  pressing  it  upon  him,  "I 
will  take  no  denial.  Men  must  eat,  no  matter  what 
crises  they  may  be  passing  through.  They  must  eat 
to  live." 

"Oh,  Doctor/'  said  Peyton,  "I  don't  want  to  live ! 
What  have  I  to  live  for?" 

"My  lad,  live  to  give  some  value  to  your  sacrifice. 
Live  to  do  your  duty  toward  that  side  of  this  awful 
quarrel  which  your  honor  constrains  you  to  take. 
Since  you  have  done  this  thing,  the  manly  part  is  to 
carry  it  through.  Have  no  more  vacillation  or  hesi 
tation.  There,  that's  better,"  he  said,  as  Peyton, 
moved  by  his  severe  but  kindly  words,  made  some 

174 


A    WANDERER   AND    A   VAGABOND 

effort  to  comply  with  the  elder  man's  insistent  request. 
"When  the  lunch  is  over  I  shall  prescribe  something 
for  you — let  me  act  as  physician  as  well  as  friend — 
which  will  enable  you  to  get  a  few  hours'  sleep.  I 
take  it  that  you  did  not  have  much  rest  last  night?" 

"No,  nor  for  many  nights,"  answered  Peyton,  grate 
fully.  "But  you  must  see  that  I  am  awakened,  if  I 
do  go  to  sleep,  in  time  to  catch  the  six  o'clock  train. 
I  am  ordered  to  report  at  Washington  at  once,  and  be 
sides  there  is  nothing  to  keep  me  here  now." 

The  doctor's  potion  and  exhausted  nature  threw 
Peyton  into  a  deep  sleep,  from  which  he  was  awakened 
by  the  doctor  himself  about  five  o'clock. 

"Well,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  look  better,  and 
I  suppose  you  feel  better." 

"I  feel  somewhat  rested,  at  any  rate,"  said  Peyton. 
"I  do  not  suppose  anything  will  ever  make  me  feel 
any  better  in  one  sense." 

"Yes,  yes,  lots  of  things  will.  Just  wait.  You  will 
see,"  said  the  doctor,  cheerily.  "Youth  and  strength, 
they  are  the  greatest  remedies  and  anodynes  in 
nature's  pharmacopoeia.  Now  make  yourself  ready, 
and  I  will  drive  you  down  to  the  station." 

"If  you  please,  Doctor,"  said  the  young  man,  reso 
lutely,  "I  would  rather  walk,  and  I  will  go  alone." 

"That  you  shall  not,  for  I  intend  to  do  myself  the 
honor  of  going  with  you.  And  Dr.  Bampney,  who 
was  here  this  afternoon  to  see  you,  will  come  too.  He 
says  he  can't  let  you  go  without  a  word  of  farewell." 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,  Doctor,"  answered  Pey 
ton.  "  'I  was  a  stranger  and  ye  took  me  in.' ' 

175 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

'Tut,  tut,  boy!  You  will  never  be  a  stranger  in 
Mobile  when  I  am  here/'  said  the  old  man,  bustling 
out  of  the  room. 

Peyton  followed  him  presently.  As  he  stepped  into 
the  hall  old  Dr.  Bampney  came  in,  his  venerable  face 
aglow  with  feeling. 

"My  dear,  dear  Boyd,"  he  cried,  clasping  his  hands, 
"you  have  broken  our  hearts  by  your  perversity,  but 
we  love  you  just  the  same.  I  do  not  know  what  future 
sacrifice  you  may  be  called  upon  to  make,  or  how  far 
you  may  be  sundered  from  your  people  here,  or 
whether  war  may  come,  but  don't  forget,"  continued 
the  old  man,  his  lip  quivering,  his  eyes  filling  with 
tears,  "that  some  of  us  will  love  you.  I  know  you 
have  not  done  this  thing  lightly  or  carelessly.  I  know 
what  it  means  to  you,"  he  said,  putting  his  hand  ten 
derly  on  the  young  man's  shoulder,  "and  some  day  it 
will  all  come  right.  Everything  will  all  come  right. 
You  will  think  as  we  do,  please  God,  or  we  will  realize 
all  of  us,  as  some  of  us  do  now,  that  whatever  you 
did,  you  did  for  the  best,  and  because  your  honor  de 
manded  it." 

"Thank  you,  Doctor,  thank  you,"  said  Peyton, 
gratefully.  "I  pray  so." 

"Ah,  Dr.  Venosste,"  continued  the  clergyman, 
"here  I  am,  you  see,  and  we  will  go  down  to  the  sta 
tion  with  our  young  friend." 

Peyton  felt  that  he  had  a  guard  of  honor  as  he 
walked  with  these  two  venerable  men  through  the 
streets,  and  other  people  felt  it  too.  Some  few  who 
knew  him  spoke  to  him  as  he  passed.  At  the  station 


A   WANDERER   AND   A   VAGABOND 

he  sent  no  message  to  anyone.  What  was  the  use  of 
it?  He  made  no  explanations.  What  was  the  use  of 
that,  either?  He  just  wrung  the  hands  of  the  two  old 
men  before  he  stepped  into  the  car  and  was  whirled 
away.  The  last  glimpse  he  caught  of  them  Dr.  Bamp- 
ney  had  his  hands  raised  in  prayer  or  benediction,  and 
the  other  older  man  stood  uncovered  by  his  side. 

It  would  be  a  long  time  before  Boyd  Peyton  came 
back  to  Mobile,  and  when  he  did,  it  would  be  in  a 
different  guise  from  that  of  a  fugitive  hounded  from 
the  streets. 


CHAPTER    XXI 


I 


THE    REGIMENT    MARCHES    AWAY 

T  was  springtime  at  Mobile,  and  spring 
time  to  the  South  is  as  summer  to  the 
North.  Already  the  trees  were  in  full 
leaf  and  the  flowers  in  full  bloom. 
The  long  withering  heats  of  summer 
were  still  to  come.  Events  had  moved 
rapidly.  The  Southern  Confederacy 
was  fully  organized.  Montgomery, 
Alabama,  had  been  the  scene  of  its 
birth.  Fort  Sumter  had  been  fired 
upon.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt 
that  there  would  be  war  between  the 
sections.  The  air  was  full  of  martial 
preparations.  President  Davis  and 
President  Lincoln  had  each  called  for 
troops,  little  dreaming  either  of  them 
of  the  monotonous  repetitions  of  the  call  that  would 
be  necessitated  by  the  gigantic  character  of  the  strife 
about  to  be  waged.  Mobile  had  joyously  offered  its 
contingent,  and  to-day  the  first  battalion  of  the  first 
regiment  to  depart  was  leaving  for  the  front.  The 
march  of  events  had  made  Bob  Darrow  a  major,  and 
Corporal  Pleasants,  his  friend,  was  now  a  second  lieu 
tenant  in  what  had  been  the  Light  Infantry,  in  Bar- 
row's  battalion.  The  troops  were  ordered  to  leave  at 


THE    REGIMENT    MARCHES    AWAY 

three  o'clock.    It  was  half  after  two  now,  and  he  was 
still  lingering  in  the  parlor  at  Annandale. 

Mary  Annan  was  excuse  enough  to  make  even  a 
soldier  forget  his  orders.  She  had  developed  strangely 
since  that  night  a  few  months  ago,  when  she  had  cele 
brated  her  birthday.  If  some  of  the  merry  audacity 
had  left  her,  the  sweeter  dignity  of  womanhood,  ap 
proaching  if  not  yet  come,  had  taken  its  place,  and 
there  was  no  loss.  In  the  infatuated  soldier's  eyes  she 
was  more  beautiful  than  ever.  A  change  had  come 
over  him  too.  Rough  soldiering,  hard  living,  and 
high  thinking  had  sobered  him.  He  was  a  different 
man  from  what  he  had  been  that  day  he  and  Peyton 
had  sat  beside  Mary  Annan  on  their  horses  watching 
the  troops  march  by.  The  better  side  of  his  nature 
had  been  aroused.  It  was  coming  to  the  front  indeed. 
Very  handsome  he  looked  in  his  new  gray  uniform, 
booted  and  spurred  and  belted,  his  sabre  clanking  at 
his  side — a  magnificent  cavalier.  The  girl's  heart 
went  out  to  him  pleading  there  with  every  advantage 
that  man  could  possess  for  her  affection.  He  had 
courted  her  as  if  her  avowal  upon  the  porch  had  not 
been  spoken,  and  she  had  rejoiced  in  the  delicacy  of 
feeling  which  had  restrained  him  from  the  faintest 
allusion  to  it.  But  she  had  not  yet  given  him  her 
answer.  She  had  found  it  difficult  to  make  up  her 
mind  after  all,  although  she  honestly  longed  and  strove 
to  love  him.  In  these  parting  hours  he  seemed  to 
have  conquered,  but  not  without  assistance  from  her. 
She  had  resolutely  put  out  of  mind  another  face  grown 
strangely  strong  which  had  risen  again  and  again  be- 

179 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

fore  her,  and  at  the  last  moment  she  had  agreed  to 
be  Darrow's  wife. 

"When  you  come  back,"  she  said,  "a  victor;  when 
this  war,  which  will  probably  be  soon  concluded,  is 
over,  and  we  have  conquered,  you  may  claim  me. 
Until  then  you — we — will  wait.  I  promise  you  on  my 
word  and  honor,  the  Annan  word,  the  honor  of  a 
Southern  woman,  that  I  will  be  yours  at  that  time — 
Robert." 

How  sweet  the  unfamiliar  name  sounded  in  his 
ear. 

"My  dear,  my  dear!"  he  cried,  "you  send  me  away 
with  such  a  hope  in  my  heart,  such  an  incentive  before 
my  eyes,  as  will  make  me  a  paladin  of  valor.  And 
you  have  made  me  selfish,  too.  I  shall  fight  now  not 
so  much  for  the  South  as  for  you." 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  "the  land,  our  dear  land,  first 
of  all." 

"Nothing,  nothing,"  protested  Darrow,  vehemently, 
"shall  be  first  but  you.  And  now,  having  won  you,  I 
must  go." 

He  stopped  and  looked  wistfully  at  her. 

"Take  off  your  sword,"  she  said,  softly.  "Un 
buckle  it  and  hand  it  to  me.  The  belt,  too." 

Wondering,  he  complied  with  her  request. 

"Now  stand  there,  still." 

As  she  spoke  she  circled  the  belt  about  him  and 
clasped  the  buckle.  His  heart  swelled  with  pride  and 
devotion  as  she  did  so.  Then  she  drew  the  sword 
from  the  scabbard  and  kissed  blade  and  guard,  and 
then  sheathed  it  and  hooked  it  to  the  belt. 

1 80 


THE    REGIMENT    MARCHES    AWAY 

"Now  I  have  girded  you,"  she  said,  "and  you  are  my 
knight,  mine  and  the  South's." 

He  was  very  close  to  her  then. 

"Mary?"  he  said,  interrogatively,  and  not  waiting  for 
an  answer  he  swept  her  into  his  arms  and  almost 
crushed  her  against  his  breast. 

She  struggled  feebly,  turned  her  head  away,  but 
he  caught  her  cheek  with  his  hand  and  before  she  knew 
it  turned  her  face  toward  him  and  pressed  a  passionate 
kiss  upon  her  lips.  It  was  the  second  time  a  young 
man  had  kissed  her. 

Before  she  could  cry  out  or  make  resistance,  or  utter 
a  word,  he  had  released  her  and  rushed  from  the  room. 
That  kiss  brought  her  to  herself.  It  awoke  the  sleep 
ing  truth  in  her  heart.  It  was  not  like  the  other. 
There  was  agony  in  the  thought.  Must  she  be  the 
slave  to  a  passion  for  a  traitor  to  her  country?  Was 
she  to  break  the  honest  heart  of  the  young  soldier  who 
had  gone  from  her  full  of  hope  and  joy  and  elation? 
She  swore  in  her  soul  that  she  would  not.  She 
would  make  him  happy.  Yet,  for  all  that,  she  laid 
her  head  in  her  hands  and  sobbed,  and  sobbed  as  only  a 
broken-hearted  woman  can. 

The  music  in  the  streets  called  her  to  her  senses 
again.  As  she  had  done  on  that  never-to-be-forgot 
ten  night,  she  resolutely  dried  her  tears,  opened  the 
window  and  stepped  upon  the  gallery.  The  soldiers 
were  making  a  parade  through  the  town  before  they 
marched  away.  They  were  far  up  the  street  now; 
the  music  came  to  her  faintly.  The  band  was  playing 
"Dixie,"  a  tune  that  had  thrilled  and  was  to  thrill  half 

181 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

a  continent  with  its  infectious  melody,  and  which 
was  to  be  enshrined  in  Southern  hearts  until  the  day 
of  judgment  should  come. 

Presently  the  music  stopped  and  the  cadence  was 
kept  up  by  the  rattling  of  the  drums.  They  were 
nearer  now.  The  streets  were  full  of  people,  black 
and  white,  rich  and  poor,  high  and  low,  cheering  and 
shouting  madly.  It  was  a  sunny,  brilliant  afternoon. 
The  lights  sparkled  upon  the  bayonets,  flashed  from 
the  brass  buttons,  gleamed  on  the  officers'  swords. 
There  was  the  regiment  itself,  some  of  the  companies 
already  uniformed  in  the  then  unfamiliar  Confederate 
gray.  And  following  it  were  the  escorting  companies, 
soon  to  march  to  the  front  themselves  in  answer  to 
similar  calls.  The  troops  represented  every  national 
ity  that  made  up  the  composite  town — the  Garde  La 
fayette,  the  German  Fusileers,  the  Washington  Light 
Infantry,  the  Creole  Cavalry,  the  Scotch  Guards,  the 
Emerald  Rifles,  the  Alabama  Artillery,  the  Light 
Horse  Lancers,  the  Gulf  City  Guards,  the  Mobile 
Cadets,  the  first  company  in  the  whole  South  to  re 
spond  to  President  Davis's  first  official  call  for  troops 
for  the  Southern  Confederacy,  and  many  others.  The 
city  which  had  known  four  flags,  the  French,  the  Span 
ish,  the  English,  and  the  United  States,  was  now  under 
the  fifth,  the  stars  and  bars  borne  by  the  color  com 
pany  in  the  front  of  the  line. 

As  the  troops  approached  her  the  sound  of  the 
cheering  grew  in  volume  until  as  they  passed  the  place 
where  she  stood  it  was  a  perfect  roar.  Yet  not  every 
body  was  cheering.  Women  looked  out  upon  the 

182 


THE   REGIMENT   MARCHES   AWAY 

moving  mass  with  white  set  faces.  Mothers  sobbed, 
fathers  trembled,  wives  yearned;  hearts  were  breaking 
as  the  soldiers  passed  by.  They  had  passed  by  many 
a  time  on  one  occasion  or  another,  but  this  time  they 
were  going  to  meet  real  war.  It  would  be  years  be 
fore  any  of  them  came  back  to  that  town.  Indeed, 
hundreds  of  those  who  stepped  gayly  to  the  music  in 
the  pride  of  their  youth,  buoyant  with  hope,  mad  with 
the  eagerness  of  inexperience,  to  fight,  would  never 
come  back  at  all.  The  regiment  would  write  its  name 
high  upon  the  roll  of  heroic  organizations;  its  children 
would  sleep  till  the  eternal  awakening  on  many  bloody 
fields  from  the  Rappahannock  to  the  Mississippi. 
Peace  to  them !  Glory  to  them ! 

Thoughts  of  this  kind  rose  in  the  mind  of  the  girl 
and  almost  choked  her.  There  at  the  head  was  little 
Colonel  Withers,  with  Lieutenant-Colonel  Lomax, 
and  there  looking  straight  to  the  front,  like  the  soldier 
he  was,  rode  her  lover.  She  stared  at  him  so  in 
tensely  that  for  one  brief  moment  his  face  swerved 
and  he  shot  one  look  at  her.  The  glance  was  so 
fraught  with  passionate  devotion,  so  permeated  with 
buoyant  hope,  with  loving  gratitude,  with  resolution, 
with  determination,  that  she  shrank  under  it  almost 
as  if  her  heart  had  been  pierced  by  an  arrow.  In  that 
one  brief  glance  she  saw  the  soul  of  that  man  who 
loved  her  as  she  had  never  before  seen  it,  and  it  was 
a  good  sight.  And  he  carried  away  with  him  the 
picture  of  her  as  she  stood  above  him  with  her  hands 
clasped  across  her  bosom,  gazing  at  him.  He  would 
carry  that  memory  into  eternity  itself. 

183 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

As  they  looked  at  each  other  the  fifes  and  drums  of 
the  regiment  broke  into  the  shrilling  of  the  "Mocking- 
Bird,"  and  with  that  air  ringing  in  his  ear,  and  her 
picture  in  his  eye,  he  marched  away. 

Ah,  ah,  it  would  be  a  long  day  before  Robert  Dar- 
row  came  back  to  Mary  Annan,  and  he,  too,  would 
come  in  a  different  guise  from  his  departure. 

As  she  turned  to  go  into  the  house  the  guns  of 
the  battery  roared  out  a  final  salute  while  the  young 
soldiers,  full  of  hope  and  joy,  embarked  on  the  steamer 
for  Montgomery. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  Judge  Annan,  coming  into 
the  parlor  and  finding  Mary  sobbing  on  the  sofa,  with 
little  Tempe,  very  quiet  now,  kneeling  by  her  side 
and  stroking  her  hand  with  that  infinite  tact  which 
sometimes  very  small  children  have,  "why  are  you 
crying?" 

"For — for — everything,  father.  I  promised  Mr. 
Bob  Darrow  to  be  his  wife,  when  the  war  is  over,  and 
we  have  conquered,  with  your  consent,  sir.  I  can 
not  help  but  think  how  many  of  them  won't — won't — 
come  back,"  she  sobbed. 

"The  war  seems  to  get  nearer  to  us,  my  child,"  said 
the  old  man,  solemnly;  "this  is  only  the  beginning. 
Alas,  our  poor  country,  our  poor  country!" 

"Is  Mr.  Darrow  going  to  shoot  the  Nunited  States, 
Sister  Mary?"  asked  Tempe,  softly,  in  an  awestruck 
voice. 

Away  out  on  the  blue  ocean,  upon  the  heaving  deck 
of  a  mighty  ship-of-war,  a  young  officer  walked  his 

184 


,      THE    REGIMENT    MARCHES    AWAY 

watch  looking  far  away  to  the  Southland  in  which  was 
enshrined  his  heart,  although  his  honor  and  duty  had 
constrained  him  to  fight  under  the  flag  floating  above 
him,  the  flag  of  the  United  States. 

Looking,  dreaming,  aye,  even  hoping!    Oh,  eternal 
youth ! 


BOOK   III 
THE   STORM    RAGES 


CHAPTER    XXII 


H 


FACING   THE    ODDS 

OW  much  had  happened  in  two  and 
a  half  years!  Mary  Annan  had  not 
dreamed  that  there  could  be  crowded 
into  so  short  a  space  of  time  events  of 
such  tremendous  moment,,  so  disas 
trous  in  their  import  to  the  Confed 
eracy.  Two  years  of  constant  fight 
ing,  of  terrific  battle  from  Virginia  to 
Louisiana,  coupled  with  the  bloody 
repulse  of  Lee  at  Gettysburg  and  the 
surrender  of  Vicksburg,  must  have 
convinced  the  farsighted  of  the  hope 
lessness  of  the  endeavor  to  form  a 
Southern  Confederacy,  unless  the  situ 
ation  could  be  changed  by  outside 
intervention. 

Yet  the  South  still  maintained  its  iron  front,  still 
with  magnificent  courage  faced  its  overwhelming  foe, 
mainly  because  it  was  not  yet  completely  exhausted 
in  its  resources.  There  was  still  a  slender  reserve  of 
strength  which  had  not  yet  been  drawn  into  the  con 
test,  and  the  people  would  not  declare  their  cause  to  be 
a  lost  one  until  it  had  been  tried  out  to  the  bitter  end. 
Because  they  were  men,  like  their  foes,  of  that  plain, 
sturdy,  undaunted,  determined  American  breed,  they 

189 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

would  never  give  up,  never  abandon  their  efforts,  until 
they  had  to. 

Gripped  by  the  terrible  blockade  of  the  seaboard, 
which  clutched  them  by  the  throat,  as  it  were;  reeling 
under  the  awful  blows  on  the  Mississippi,  in  Tennessee, 
amid  the  hills  of  Pennsylvania,  with  resolution  un 
abated  they  still  fought  on.  The  decimated,  depleted 
battalions  still  looked  to  their  weapons  and  held  their 
lines.  Nay,  more  with  impetuous  gallantry  they  ac 
tually  assumed  the  offensive  on  every  possible  op 
portunity. 

The  fiction  that  one  Southerner  could  whip  five 
Yankees  had  long  since  been  exploded,  but  't  is  only 
just  to  the  Southerner  to  point  out  that  he  faithfully 
endeavored  to  live  up  to  that  conviction.  He  found, 
however,  that  true  manhood  is  not  confined  by  isother 
mal  lines,  and  that  so  far  as  this  continent  is  concerned, 
climate  has  little  to  do  with  courage.  He  found  the 
men  of  the  North  quick  and  eager  to  meet  him  on  the 
field.  Two  years  of  fighting  had  given  the  sections  a 
healthy  mutual  respect,  which  the  old  soldiers,  at  least, 
have  never  lost. 

With  each  hour  of  the  struggle  some  of  the  bitter 
ness  of  it  disappeared.  The  personal  antagonism 
which  had  been  so  prominent  was  blown  away  by  the 
cannon.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  they  fought  good- 
naturedly — almost  good-humoredly — and  without 
malevolence.  They  still  cherished  the  principles  for 
which  they  contended ;  they  were  still  determined  and 
resolute  to  enforce  them,  but  they  did  not  hate  and 
despise  each  other  as  a  whole.  Every  battle  showed 

190 


FACING   THE    ODDS 

this.  It  was  the  politicians,  the  non-combatants,  the 
prison  guards,  the  contractors,  who  held  and  nourished 
the  rancor.  And — forgive  me — to  this  class  may  be 
added  the  women.  They  are  the  only  unreconstructed 
class  to-day.  For  this  there  was  a  reason. 

The  hardest  of  humanity's  tasks  is,  waiting  while 
others  act.  To  sit  passive  at  home  while  the  struggle 
is  waged  abroad;  to  watch  with  sinking  heart  for  re 
ports  from  the  battle;  to  scan  with  deadly  anxiety  the 
monotonous  lists  of  killed  and  wounded,  fearful  for  the 
sight  of  a  beloved  name ;  to  be  left  alone,  to  find  one's 
self  a  widow  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  a  mother 
bereft ;  to  be  hungry,  ill-clad,  to  feel  want  where 
plenty  had  been;  to  hear  children  clamor  and  have 
nothing  wherewith  to  satisfy  them;  to  wait  in  terrified 
apprehension  for  .the  coming  of  the  conquerors;  to 
summon  cheerfulness  from  breaking  heart  and  tremb 
ling  lip;  to  welcome  the  return  of  the  defeated;  to 
fly  before  the  battle  in  the  morning;  to  search  upon 
the  stricken  field  in  the  evening;  to  kneel  by  the  bed 
side  of  the  dying  in  the  hospital — ah,  God,  this  is  what 
war  means  for  woman !  What  wonder  that  it  made — 
it  makes — them  bitter? 

The  born  cowards  are  few  and  far  between.  How 
ever  men  may  feel  at  first,  they  finally  grow  to  love 
the  atmosphere  of  battle.  The  rattle  of  small  arms, 
the  hiss  of  the  rifle  bullet,  the  scream  of  the  shell, 
the  roar  of  the  cannon,  like  the  shrilling  of  the  trum 
pet,  the  rolling  of  the  drum,  rouse  the  virile  man.  The 
hardships  of  the  forced  march,  the  long  exposure,  the 
hard  privation,  are  forgotten  when  the  battle  is  joined, 

191 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

and  the  small  flag  flutters  from  the  staff  in  the  stout 
arm  at  the  head  of  the  charging  column.  The  touch 
of  human  shoulders  in  the  resistless  advance,  the  click 
of  steel  on  steel  in  savage  onset,  aye,  even  the  last 
desperate  stand  before  some  overwhelming  foe,  fill 
the  soul. 

"  For  how  can  men  die  better 
Than  facing  fearful  odds, 
For  the  ashes  of  their  fathers, 
And  the  temples  of  their  gods ! " 

To  struggle  is  to  live.  Oh,  for  one  hour  of  such  life, 
one  short  hour  of  heroic  zeal,  of  high  endeavor,  of 
splendid  courage  on  a  stricken  field,  whether  it  be  in 
the  foreground  of  victory,  or  at  the  battle  heart  hold 
ing  back  the  human  tide  of  conquest.  It  is  worth  a 
cycle  of  inglorious  ease,  a  century  of  ignoble  quiet! 
When  man,  with  his  fighting  blood  up,  the  blood  that 
has  made  him,  feeble  animal  that  he  is,  the  conqueror 
of  the  world,  has  his  back  against  the  wall,  or  stands 
alone  in  the  last  ditch  and  strikes  out  for  God  and 
man,  for  truth  and  right,  until  the  end,  then  he  rises 
to  the  highest  standard  of  his  manhood,  then  he 
transcends  the  monotony  of  little  life.  It  is  the  lone 
liness  of  the  Cross  that  adds  the  last  touch  of  sublimity 
to  the  sacrifice. 

Oh,  that  splendid  phrase  of  the  great  militant  Saint 
Paul,  when  he  says,  "And  having  done  all,  to  stand !" 
To  stand  beaten,  broken,  but  undaunted,  resolute  to 
the  end.  To  fall  for  a  great  and  splendid  cause,  a 
high  and  holy  duty,  a  lofty  and  cherished  ideal — that  is 
what  we  love.  These  are  the  compensations  for  the 

192 


FACING   THE   ODDS 

horrors  of  the  field.  It  is  always  the  other  man  in  our 
anticipations  who  is  stricken  down;  and  if  the  bullet 
finds  us  and  snuffs  us  suddenly  out — well,  thank  God, 
we  did  not  know.  If  we  must  suffer  long  agonies  be 
cause  of  it,  we  will  at  least  have  had  the  hour  of  the 
fierce  savage  joy  which  comes  only  to  the  fighter  in 
the  cause  he  loves. 

But  none  of  this  is  for  the  women.  What  wonder, 
then,  that  most  of  them  were  bitter?  Tried  in  that 
awful  fire,  Mary  Annan  had  emerged  from  the  test, 
so  far  as  it  had  been  completed,  another  woman.  The 
old  judge,  stricken  to  the  heart  by  the  division  of  his 
unhappy  country,  had  pined  and  failed.  When  the 
news  came  blowing  down  the  wind  on  that  July  day 
that  Vicksburg  had  fallen  and  that  the  great  artery 
of  the  Mississippi  beat  and  throbbed  under  the  old 
flag  of  the  old  Union;  and  when  the  dreadful  story 
of  the  ebbing  of  the  mighty  tide  of  war  at  Gettysburg 
was  received,  when  the  last  hope  of  the  South  went 
down  as  Pickett's  columns  reeled  back  from  Cemetery 
Ridge  leaving  the  heroic  Armistead's  dead  body  to 
mark  high  water  on  the  hills,  as  if  in  accordance  with 
his  own  resolution  the  judge  folded  his  hands  across 
his  breast  and  became  a  citizen  of  another  country, 
that  is — let  us  hope — a  heavenly  one. 

And  Beverly  Annan,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  home  from 
the  Virginia  Military  Institute,  overruling  his  sister's 
protests,  had  enlisted  in  the  artillery,  and  gone  down 
to  Fort  Morgan  with  the  First  Alabama  Battery, 
where  Colonel  Peyton,  now  a  brigadier-general,  com 
manded  all  the  defences  of  the  bay. 

193 


THE  SOUTHERNERS 

"What !"  cried  the  boy,  when  she  expostulated  with 
him  and  besought  him,  "the  South  in  extremity,  right 
ing  for  everything  that  men  hold  dear,  and  no  Annan 
in  the  field !  Yes,  yes,  I  know  I  am  the  last  of  them, 
Sister  Mary,  except  you  and  little  Tempe,  the  last  of 
the  line;  yet,  if  it  must  end,  can  it  end  in  a  better  way?" 

And  so,  laughing  boylike  beneath  his  tears,  he  had 
torn  himself  from  her  and  was  gone.  Only  Tempe 
remained,  Tempe  grown  taller  and  larger  and  wiser, 
but  Tempe  much  the  same ;  not  asking  now  if  the  sol 
diers  were  going  to  shoot  the  "Nunited  States."  The 
departure  of  troops  from  the  city  had  become  such  an 
ordinary  occurrence  now  as  to  awaken  little  attention. 

Willis  Peyton,  perhaps  influenced  by  his  brother's 
profession,  had  resigned  from  the  battery  and  had 
gone  into  the  Confederate  Navy,  where  he  had  already 
enjoyed  a  brilliant  career  on  the  Sumter.  He  was 
now  on  duty  with  other  officers  at  Selma,  up  the  State, 
where  was  building  a  great  war  vessel,  destined  to  earn 
for  itself  an  heroic  name  in  future  naval  history.  Mrs. 
Peyton  and  Pink  lived  at  Annandale  now.  The  ad 
ditional  expense  of  keeping  up  two  establishments  was 
great  in  these  straitened  days.  Mary  Annan,  alone 
in  the  great  house,  craved  the  companionship  of  the 
elder  woman  whose  daughter  was  her  dearest  friend. 
Most  of  the  negroes  of  the  two  households  had  been 
sent  away  with  the  troops  or  were  at  work  on  the 
constantly  increasing  line  of  fortifications.  Only  a  few 
of  the  house  servants  remained  at  home. 

Outwardly  things  remained  much  as  they  had  been 
before  the  war  began.  The  breeze  still  swept  across 

194 


FACING   THE   ODDS 

the  bay,  laden  with  the  heavy  summer  fragrance  of 
the  semi-tropic  blossoms;  the  mocking-birds  still  sang 
in  the  live-oaks;  but  within  everything  was  different. 
Mobile  had  not  yet  suffered  for  the  necessaries  of  life, 
but  luxuries  had  long  since  gone.  For  instance,  it  had 
been  difficult,  nay,  impossible,  for  Mary  Annan  to 
purchase  black  goods  for  mourning  wear  when  her 
father  died.  There  was  such  a  demand  for  that  all 
over  the  South — and  the  North,  too,  for  that  matter — 
that  had  it  not  been  for  the  resources  of  wardrobes  of 
the  past  she  would  have  been  without  it. 

These  growing  privations  fell  hardest  again  upon 
the  women,  especially  those  of  the  aristocratic  classes, 
who  had  been  reared  in  such  ease  and  luxury,  with 
such  abundance  of  goods  and  service,  as  we  can 
scarcely  realize  now.  But  they  made  no  murmur,  ac 
cepted  the  situation  without  repining,  rejoiced  that 
they  could  contribute  that  little  to  the  cause  they 
loved. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


MARY   ANNAN    LEARNS   THE  TRUTH 


M 


ARY  ANNAN  had  changed  greatly 
in  this  period.  The  passionate,  fiery, 
quick-tempered  girl,  who  had  reviled 
Boyd  Peyton  on  'that  day  on  the  porch, 
and  then  had  thrown  herself  at  Dar- 
row's  head  in  the  next  moment,  was 
gone  never  to  return.  The  old  fire 
still  lurked  within  her  veins — it  would 
live  there  as  long  as  youth  inhabited 
her  heart — but  much  of  the  outward 
impetuosity  was  gone.  Experience  had 
opened  her  eyes.  While  her  convic 
tions  were  as  strong  as  they  had  been, 
she  had  begun  to  see  that  others  might 
think  differently,  that  others  might  ar 
rive  at  conclusions  at  variance  with  hers,  and  might 
be  compelled  by  honor  to  maintain  those  conclusions, 
even  though  she  believed  them  mistaken. 

Without  surrendering  a  single  conviction,  where  she 
had  despised,  she  admired;  where  she  had  hated,  she 
respected;  where  she  thought  she  had  forgotten,  she 
remembered ;  where  she  remembered,,  she  loved !  Yes, 
she  was  still  devoted  to  the  South,  and  would  cheer 
fully  have  died  for  it.  She  had  many  a  time  longed 
that  she  were  a  man  to  draw  a  sword  or  carry  a 

196 


MARY   ANNAN    LEARNS    THE   TRUTH 

musket  in  defence  of  her  country.  She  would  not 
have  hesitated  a  moment  between  love  and  duty — 
she  thought — but  she  had  come  to  realize  that,  while 
duty  may  restrain,  it  is,  after  all,  love  that  makes  the 
supreme  appeal.  And  the  outward  and  visible  shape 
which  that  supreme  appeal  took  before  her  heart  was 
not  that  of  Darrow,  to  whom  she  was  betrothed,  but 
Peyton,  whom  she  had  rejected.  She  loved  him !  In 
spite  of  her  pride,  in.  spite  of  her  cause,  in  spite  of 
her  will,  in  spite  of  everything,  she  loved  him ! 

No  one  in  Mobile  had  heard  from  Boyd  Peyton 
since  that  day  he  had  dropped  out  of  their  existence 
years  before.  But  she  had  loved  him  with  growing 
intensity  ever  since.  To  be  sure,  she  had  engaged 
herself  to  Darrow.  She  had  persuaded  herself  in  his 
presence  that  she  could  do  it  with  safety;  she  had  tried 
to  blind  herself  to  the  truth,  and  she  had  clung  to  that 
engagement  with  desperate  tenacity  during  the  inter 
vening  years.  But  her  eyes  were  opened,  and  she  re 
alized  all  too  soon  that  the  tie  binding  her  to  Darrow 
was  merely  one  of  honor  and  respect. 

It  was  a  pity  that  this  was  so,  for  Darrow  had  shown 
himself  most  admirable  in  the  situations  in  which  he 
had  been  placed.  He  had  developed  grandly.  From 
major  of  his  regiment  he  had  risen  to  the  command  of 
an  Alabama  brigade,  and  in  all  the  desperate  fighting 
of  the  Army  of  Northern  Virginia  he  had  borne  a 
splendid  and  heroic  part.  The  State  rang  with  praise 
of  the  young  paladin.  He  had  been  wounded  at 
Chancellorsville,  but  he  had  remained  with  the  army 
and  had  refused  a  leave  of  absence  to  go  home  to  Mo- 

197 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

bile  and  recuperate.  Darrow  had  neither  father, 
mother,  nor  relative  living,  but  the  whole  South  would 
have  been  glad  to  receive  him.  Alabama  was  proud 
of  him,  Mobile  rejoiced  to  claim  him. 

There  was  something  quixotic  yet  admirable  about 
the  young  man's  position  on  the  subject  of  home 
coming.  Mary  Annan  had  promised  herself  to  him 
when  the  war  was  over,  and  he  could  come  back  a 
victor,  and  until  that  time  arrived  he  had  promised  to 
leave  her  alone.  He  would  do  it.  He  would  keep  that 
promise  if  it  broke  his  heart.  Like  Uriah  of  old,  he 
believed  his  place  to  be  in  the  battle-line. 

Frequent  letters  had  come  to  her  from  him  as  the 
exigencies  of  his  service  permitted.  Quaint,  charm 
ing  letters  they  were,  too,  manly,  modest,  humorous  in 
a  way,  through  them  running  the  clash  of  arms,  the 
echo  of  moving  squadrons,  the  roar  of  battle,  and  all 
of  them  carrying  to  her  the  deep  and  mighty  current 
of  love  and  the  consecration  of  his  great,  devoted  heart. 
She  was  the  master  theme  in  all  the  voices  the  crowded 
years  played  in  his  soul.  Without  her  he  was  noth 
ing,  one  of  thousands  as  brave  and  strong  as  he;  with 
her  he  was  a  hero.  The  realization  of  that  fact  had 
kept  her  to  her  engagement.  He  had  scarcely  gone 
before  she  wished  it  broken.  She  hated  herself  for 
this.  She  condemned  herself  for  what  she  called  her 
weakness,  not  knowing  that  what  she  thought  a 
woman's  weakness  in  her  heart  was  yet  her  strength 
after  all. 

Darrow  was  no  less  admirable  than  Peyton.  True, 
he  had  not  been  compelled  to  make  any  such  sacrifice 

198 


MARY    ANNAN    LEARNS    THE    TRUTH 

as  the  other  had,  but  he  had  done  what  he  conceived 
to  be  his  duty  with  a  direct  simplicity  that  was  admir 
able.  He  was  handsomer,  taller,  stronger  in  a  physical 
way,  braver  than  the  other — no,  not  braver,  no  man 
could  be  braver  than  Peyton.  She  wondered  some 
times  if  Darrow  would  have  had  the  moral  courage  to 
refuse  her  and  act  as  Peyton  had  done,  but  that  was 
an  academic  question. 

But  what  of  all  this?  It  was  nothing.  If  Darrow 
had  been  dowered  with  every  faculty,  possessed,  of 
every  virtue,  and  if  Peyton  had  none  of  these,  she 
would  have  loved  him  just  the  same.  Her  passion 
had  passed  far  beyond  the  calmly  reasoning  or  rea 
sonable  stage;  it  took  note  only  of  facts,  or  rather  of 
the  one  sublime  fact  that  she  loved  him.  Darrow's 
appeal  had  been  most  powerful  to  the  physical  side  of 
her  nature,  and  that  side  was  growing  more  and  more 
in  abeyance  in  her  developing  life.  If  she  could  have 
seen  him  it  might  have  been  different;  she  might  have 
realized  the  change  in  him. 

Yet  she  was  not  ignorant  of  what  he  had  done  for, 
and  through,  her;  how  lie  had  developed  in  love  and 
war.  And  she  was  fearful  what  the  consequences 
might  be  to  him,  and,  if  he  were  of  value,  to  the  South, 
if  she  should  take  away  from  him  the  stimulus  of  hope. 
Yet  she  had  at  last  reached  the  point  where  she  felt 
compelled  to  do  so.  As  he  loved  her  more  he  ex 
pected  more  from  her;  as  she  loved  Peyton  more  she 
gave  Darrow  less  and  less. 

Her  heart  had  turned  absolutely  to  Peyton.  Saving 
her  duty  to  the  South,  she  was  his.  His  absence,  the 

199 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

impossibility  of  their  meeting,  all  conspired  to  pro 
duce  the  utter  abandonment  with  which  she  gave  way 
to  her  passion.  She  could  not  sit  a  single  moment  in 
the  solitude  of  her  chamber  without  thinking  of  him. 
She  realized  that  if  he  ever  stood  again  before  her  with 
his  arms  stretched  out  to  her  no  power  on  earth  should 
keep  them  apart — unless  her  duty  to  the  South  inter 
vened.  And  even  that  duty  would  have  to  be  over 
whelming  in  its  appeal  to  stay  her  movement  toward 
him. 

Her  being  went  out  to  him  more  strongly  when  she 
learned  inadvertently  that  he  was  an  officer  on  one 
of  the  ships  blockading  the  mouth  of  the  bay,  opposite 
Fort  Morgan.  Fate  had  as  yet  given  him  little  op 
portunity  for  distinction;  he  was  only  a  lieutenant,  the 
watch  officer  of  a  frigate. 

She  sat  in  her  room  for  long  hours,  her  face  lean 
ing  on  her  hands,  staring  through  the  window  south 
ward  where  he  was.  His  nearness,  while  it  did  not 
make  possible  their  meeting,  had  found  her  unable 
to  disguise  her  longing  to  see  him  once  more.  His 
advent  in  the  South  had  added  the  last  stimulus  to  her 
heart.  The  fire  and  passion  which  had  been  repressed 
so  long,  burst  out  for  him  now.  Sometimes  with 
nervous  hands  she  tore  at  her  dress  across  her  bosom 
as  she  walked  restlessly  to  and  fro  in  her  room,  at  the 
thought  of  him,  as  if  the  heart  that  beat  there  were 
confined — as  if  it  could  not  get  out,  and  she  must  re 
lease  it  or  die. 

The  overpowering  of  a  great  passion  such  as  poets 
have  dreamed  of,  such  as  historians  have  written  of, 

200 


MARY   ANNAN   LEARNS   THE   TRUTH 

such  as,  given  wider  fields,  has  moved  the  world, 
was  upon  her.  The  thought  of  Peyton  obsessed  her, 
and  her  heart  cried  out  to  him  with  every  beating. 
She  trembled  even  at  the  most  secret  thought  of  his 
name.  She  was  never  so  happy  as  when  Mrs.  Peyton, 
long  since  having  disregarded  her  husband's  injunc 
tions,  talked  of  him.  The  smallest  detail  of  his  life  as 
his  mother  told  over  and  over  again  the  story  of  it, 
was  as  food  to  the  craving  of  her  soul. 

The  elder  woman  marked  the  revelation,  and  won 
dered,  with  a  painful  pity  for  poor  Darrow  and  a 
mighty  yearning  for  her  eldest  son,  how  it  would  all 
end.  The  grim  old  father,  too,  down  on  the  ramparts 
of  Fort  Morgan,  watched  the  fleet  tossing  to  and 
fro  on  the  long  swells  of  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  and 
longed  for  a  sight  of  the  boy  he  had  so  loved,  although 
he,  at  least,  gave  no  outward  sign. 

But  Mary  Annan  was  heedless  of  Mrs.  Peyton's  ob 
servations.  There  was  room  in  her  heart  for  little 
but  Peyton.  Had  he  forgotten  her?  Had  he  for 
given  her?  Did  he  love  her?  Did  he  loathe  her? 
Was  his  heart  still  hers?  Had  he  given  it  to  another? 
Had  she  crushed  love  out  of  him  on  that  bitter  day 
of  rejection?  Did  devotion  surge  within  his  veins  as 
in  her  own?  She  knew  not,  almost  she  cared  not. 
Her  feelings  were  too  deep  and  overwhelming  to  de 
pend  upon  reciprocation.  Love  was  all,  the  future 
nothing. 

In  Mary  Annan's  waking  hours  she  was  afraid,  afraid 
to  think  how  much  she  loved  Boyd  Peyton.  In  the 
long  nights  she  dreamed  of  him.  She  was  his,  that  was 

20 1 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

all;  whether  he  claimed  her  or  not,  whether  he  knew 
it  or  not,  she  was  his.  Ah,  loving  God,  how  she  prayed 
for  him  in  every  hour  of  her  life !  The  South  and  he 
mingled  in  her  petitions,  and  only  that  God  who  can 
read  the  holy  mystery  of  a  loving  woman's  heart  knew 
which  came  first. 

She  would  sit  for  long  hours  with  her  face  in  her 
hands  in  that  familiar  position,  gazing  to  the  south 
ward,  her  breath  coming  quick,  her  color  ebbing  and 
flowing,  her  bosom  heaving  until  she  would  stretch 
out  her  arms  piteously  to  the  southward  as  if  to  bridge 
the  distance  between  them  and  offer  him  her  heart. 
Sometimes  they  found  her  so,  with  a  strange  look  on 
her  face,  a  strange  light  in  her  eyes,  a  deep  flush  on  her 
cheek,  exalted,  entranced. 

Her  feelings  grew  so  strong  at  last  that  she  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  she  must  tell  Darrow.  If  it 
killed  him  he  must  know.  Every  letter  she  received 
in  its  trusting  devotion  impressed  upon  her  that  honor 
demanded  that  he  should  be  told  the  truth.  She  did 
not  love  him.  She  never  could  love  him.  Marriage 
with  him  would  be  no  sacrament,  but  a  sacrilege.  She 
honored  him,  she  esteemed  him;  she  would  have  given 
worlds  to  have  felt  differently.  She  had  honestly  tried 
to  love  him,  but  her  heart  had  at  last  outleaped  con 
straint.  That  was  the  naked  truth. 

She  could  not  permit  herself  to  deceive  him  longer, 
and  so  at  last  she  poured  out  her  heart  to  him  in  one 
long,  broken  appeal;  telling  him  the  whole  truth, 
shaming  herself,  scorning  herself,  but  asking  her  free 
dom.  Not  in  the  hope  of  marrying  Peyton,  either — 

202 


MARY    ANNAN    LEARNS    THE    TRUTH 

she  was  above  the  idea  then  and  it  was  impossible 
anyway — but  because  honor  and  decency  demanded 
that  she  tell  Darrow  the  truth,  and  free  herself  and  him 
from  the  bond  which  was  certain  to  prove  horrible  to 
both  of  them  in  the  end,  since  love  only  linked  them 
half  the  way.  It  would  be  kinder  to  him  after  all. 
But  kind  or  not  it  had  to  be;  if  it  killed  him  and  her, 
the  word  must  be  written. 

In  agony  she  penned  the  letter.  There  was  no 
doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  the  sincerity  of  Barrow's 
passion  for  her.  She  looked  into  her  own  heart  and 
saw  what  he  would  suffer,  and  she  suffered  for  and 
with  him.  The  penalty,  and  the  reward  of  a  great 
passion  is  in  the  sympathy  it  begets  with  the  suffering 
that  always  follows  knowledge  of  the  heart.  She  was 
dreadfully  unhappy.  But  for  Boyd  Peyton  she  would 
have  died. 

The  fateful  letter  had  been  sent  to  Darrow  about 
the  middle  of  September  by  the  hand  of  Hamilton 
Pleasants,  lieutenant-colonel,  now  if  you  please,  com 
manding  the  old  Alabama  regiment.  He  had  come 
back  to  recover  from  an  attack  of  typhoid  fever,  after 
Gettysburg,  and  he  had  become  bethrothed  to  Pink 
Peyton  at  the  time. 

The  news  had  come  that  Longstreet's  corps  was 
hurrying  from  Virginia  to  reinforce  Bragg's  army, 
then  facing  Rosecrans  and  the  Army  of  the  Cumber 
land  on  the  mountains  around  Chattanooga.  Though 
he  was  scarcely  able  to  endure  the  fatigues  and  de 
mands  of  active  campaigning,  Pleasants  had  hurried 
away  to  intercept  his  regiment  and  to  take  part  in 

203 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

the  effort  which  was  to  be  made  to  hurl  the  Federal 
troops  out  of  Tennessee. 

The  peculiar  feeling  that  precedes  great  events  was 
in  the  air,  and  everyone  waited  with  baited  breath  in 
expectation  of  the  great  battle  impending.  It  was 
with  sad  hearts  indeed  that  the  two  young  women, 
Pink  and  Mary,  bade  the  young  man  good-by.  He 
carried  the  heart  of  one  girl  with  him  and  in  his  pocket 
a  letter  which  was  to  strike  a  mortal  wound  deep  in 
the  soul  of  his  boyhood  companion. 


CHAPTER    XXIV 


E 


WITH  DARROW  S  BRIGADE 

ARLY  in  the  afternoon  of  September 
19,  1863,  the  first  of  the  long  troop 
trains  clanked  wearily  into  the  station 
at  Ringgold,  Georgia.  A  young  man 
in  gray  uniform,  wearing  the  shoulder- 
straps  of  a  lieutenant-colonel  stood 
upon  the  platform,  an  expression  of 
eagerness  and  anxiety  on  his  thin, 
worn  face  as  he  gazed  at  the  long 
line  of  ramshackly  cars  filled  with 
gray-clad  men.  As  the  first  soldier 
stepped  from  the  train  he  rushed  im 
petuously  up  to  him  with  outstretched 
arms,  shouting: 

"Oh,  Bob,  Bob,  I  am  so  glad " 

The  handsome  face  of  Brigadier- 
General  Robert  Darrow,  commanding 
the  Alabama  brigade  of  Hood's  division  of  Long- 
street's  famous  corps  of  the  Army  of  Northern  Vir 
ginia,  broke  into  a  broad  smile  as  Lieutenant-Colonel 
Hamilton  Pleasants  recovered  himself  with  an  embar 
rassed  laugh,  came  to  attention,  saluted  in  the  most 
formal  manner,  and  remarked,  with  military  pre 
cision  : 

"General,  I  report  for  duty,  sir." 
205 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Ham,"  returned  Darrow,  genially, 
shaking  the  other  warmly  by  the  hand.  "You  ought 
not  to  be  here,  though.  You  are  not  well  yet." 

"Couldn't  help  it,"  said  Pleasants;  "I  just  had  to 
come.  I  heard  there  was  going  to  be  fighting,  and  I 
wanted  to  head  the  old  regiment  once  more." 

"Well,  you  got  here  in  the  nick  of  time.  Your 
regiment  is  on  this  section.  Go  and  take  command, 
and  get  the  men  out  of  the  cars.  They  are  in  heavy 
marching  order,  and  are  to  move  forward  at  once." 

Glad  to  be  in  active  service  once  more,  and  eager  to 
see  his  old  comrades  again,  Pleasants,  forgetting  let 
ters,  messages,  and  everything  else,  saluted  and  ran 
toward  the  train,  receiving  a  greeting  of  cheers  from 
his  soldiers  as  they  recognized  him. 

"Mr.  Ledyard,"  said  the  young  general,  turning  to 
a  staff  officer,  "you  are  to  remain  at  the  station  and 
as  fast  as  the  other  regiments  of  the  brigade  come  in 
direct  their  colonels  to  get  the  men  in  line  as  quick  as 
possible.  I  will  rest  the  right  of  the  brigade  over 
there  in  that  field.  Ah,  here  comes  someone  looking 
for  us,"  he  added,  as  another  staff-officer  came  riding 
down  the  road  at  a  furious  gallop,  halted  abruptly  be 
fore  him,  dismounted,  and  saluted. 

"General  Darrow?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"I'm  Colonel  Thompson,  of  General  Bragg's  staff." 

"Glad  to  meet  you,  Colonel." 

"Thank  you,  the  pleasure's  mine,"  said  Thompson. 
"As  soon  as  your  brigade  is  assembled,  sir,  you  are  to 
march  up  this  road  to  the  left  toward  Reed's  Bridge, 

206 


WITH    BARROW'S    BRIGADE 

over  Chickamauga  Creek,  with  all  speed.       General 
Hood's  compliments  and  orders,  sir." 

"Very  good,  sir;  how  far  is  it  to  the  army?" 
"It's  about  ten  miles,  I  reckon,  and  the  general 
hopes  you  can  get  there  this  evening.     There  has  been 
heavy  fighting  all  morning.     You  are  needed." 
"We'll  be  there." 

"It's  a  long  march,"  said  the  colonel,  dubiously. 
"That's  all  right;  I've  got  a  brigade  of  foot  cavalry 
here,"  laughed  Darrow. 

"Don't  wait  for  anything,  General,"  replied  Thomp 
son,  laughing  in  turn.  "Your  men  still  have  some 
thing  left  in  their  haversacks,  I  suppose?" 

"They  have  enough  for  another  meal,  I  reckon." 
"That's  well.     Push  them  forward  as  fast  as  you 
can.     Our  losses  have  been  severe,  but  we  have  forced 
the  enemy  back,  and  the  battle  is  to  be  resumed  in 
the  morning." 

"Has  General  Longstreet  come?" 
"Yes.     He  is  with  General  Bragg  now." 
"Here  comes  the  second  section  of  my  brigade," 
said  Darrow,  as  another  long  train  loaded  with  gray- 
coated  soldiers  pulled  up  on  a  siding. 
"Good!" 

"And  the  third  will  be  along  presently,  I  think." 
"Fine !     Jove,  we're  glad  you're  here.     We've  had 
a  terrible  time  all  day,  but  with  your  fresh  veterans 
we  ought  to  sweep  everything  before  us  to-morrow." 
"Well,  sir,  we  will  do  what  we  can,"  said  Darrow. 
"My  men  have  seen  a  deal  of  fighting,  and  we'll  try  to 
hold  our  end  up." 

207 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"I  know  you  will.  The  Army  of  Northern  Vir 
ginia  is  all  right,  but  we  think  down  here  that  we 
don't  have  to  take  a  back  seat  for  anybody  when  it 
comes  to  fighting." 

"You  are  right,  Colonel,  you  don't/'  said  Darrow, 
generously.  "Oh,  but  it's  good  to  be  down  here !  I 
am  nearer  home  than  I  have  been  for  three  years." 

"You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  never 
been  back  since  you  went  to  the  front?" 

"Never.  I  have  stayed  right  in  Virginia  until  I  feel 
fairly  sick  for  a  sight  of  old  Alabama." 

"If  we  beat  the  Yanks  to-morrow  you  will  soon  be 
on  your  native  soil.  Home!"  continued  Thompson, 
thoughtfully,  surveying  the  passing  regiments.  "  I  am 
afraid  that  a  great  many  of  these  fellows  will  never  see 
it  again." 

"Yes,  but  that's  a  part  of  a  soldier's  risk,"  said  Dar 
row,  softly. 

Before  the  troops  moved  off  Darrow  drew  aside 
from  his  staff  and  beckoned  Pleasants  to  come  to 
him. 

"We  haven't  had  a  moment  alone,  Ham,"  said  the 
young  brigadier  to  the  younger  colonel,  "till  now; 
but  before  we  march  off — you  have  just  come  from 
home.  Did  you  see  her?" 

"I  should  say  I  did!"  responded  the  junior  officer, 
forgetting  himself  and  lapsing  into  the  old  familiar 
style.  "Bob,  she  is  the  sweetest  and  prettiest  thing 
on  earth,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  that  I  am  en 
gaged  to  her." 

"Good  heavens!"  gasped  Darrow,  turning  pale. 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

208 


WITH    BARROW'S    BRIGADE 

"Oh,  I  mean  Miss  Pink  Peyton,  not — "  returned 
the  colonel,  in  much  confusion. 

"I  see,"  greatly  relieved.  "I  thought  you  meant 
Miss  Mary." 

"No,  of  course  not,"  said  the  other. 

"Of  course  not.  Naturally  you  would  not  think 
anyone  equal  to  Miss  Peyton." 

"Well,  I — but  I  have  a  letter  for  you,"  said  Pleas- 
ants,  blushing  furiously  and  fumbling  in  his  jacket 
and  bringing  it  forth.  "I  forgot  all  about  it,"  he 
added,  shamefacedly,  letters  from  home  being  the 
things  craved  by  the  soldiers. 

Darrow  seized  it  eagerly  in  his  gauntleted  hands. 
For  a  second  he  made  a  motion  as  if  to  press  it  to  his 
lips,  and  then,  recollecting  that  the  eyes  of  half  his 
brigade  were  on  him,  he  thrust  it  reluctantly  in  his 
pocket. 

"How  did  she  look?    Was  she  well?"  he  asked. 

"Beautiful!"  said  Pleasants,  rapturously.  "Oh,  you 
mean  Miss  Mary?  She  looked  very  well  indeed.  Of 
course  she  is  awfully  cut  up  about  the  death  of  her 
father,  and  the  war  and  all  that,  and  you,  too,  I  sup 
pose,  but  otherwise  she  is  quite  well.  I  reckon  she 
must  be  very  fond  of  you,  old  fellow." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  the  general,  brightening  in  this 
vague  assurance,  "By  the  way,  Pleasants,  did  you 
hear  anything  of  Boyd  Peyton  while  you  were  in  Mo 
bile?" 

"Yes,  he  is  in  the  blockading  fleet  down  off  Fort 
Morgan." 

"Come  to  my  head-quarters  to-night,"  said  the 
209 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

general,  "as  soon  as  we  have  made  camp,  if  we  make 
any  camp.  I  want  to  talk  to  you  about  home  and  Miss 
Mary." 

"And  Miss  Pink/'  interrupted  Pleasants. 

"Yes,  of  course,  before  we  go  into  battle  to-mor 
row.  It  may  be  our  last  chance,  you  know." 

By  this  time  the  platform  and  open  space  about  the 
station  were  filled  with  soldiers  from  the  two  sections 
which  had  already  arrived.  Their  uniforms  were  dusty 
and  worn,  sometimes  tattered  and  patched,  but  their 
gun-barrels  were  bright,  their  rifles  were  looked  to. 
They  bore  themselves  with  the  careless  insouciance 
of  veterans  as  they  fell  into  ranks  with  the  prompt 
ness  of  trained  soldiers.  Their  lean,  brown,  leather- 
tanned  faces,  their  vigorous,  easy  movements,  as  well 
as  their  torn  and  tattered  battle-flags,  spoke  in  elo 
quent  language  of  hard  marches,  long  campaigns, 
and  fierce  battles. 

With  rattle  of  drums  and  shrilling  of  fifes,  in  obedi 
ence  to  the  sharp  staccato  commands  of  the  officers 
rising  above  the  confusion,  they  marched  down  the 
dusty  road  and  aligned  themselves  in  companies  and 
regiments  at  the  designated  position.  Mounting  his 
horse,  which,  with  the  other  horses,  had  been  unloaded 
from  the  stock-cars  in  the  front  of  the  train,  Darrow 
rode  to  the  head  of  his  brigade.  The  last  section  had 
arrived  while  the  conversation  had  been  going  on,  and, 
all  the  dispositions  having  been  promptly  made,  a  word 
of  command  put  the  troops  in  motion. 

The  Alabama  regiment  in  which  he  had  gone  out 
as  a  major  had  mustered,  on  its  departure  from  Mobile, 

210 


WITH    DARROW'S    BRIGADE 

some  eleven  hundred  officers  and  men.  Now  the  en 
tire  force  of  the  brigade,  comprising  four  regiments 
and  a  battery  of  artillery,  was  scarcely  more  than  fif 
teen  hundred  men.  They  were  fifteen  hundred,  how 
ever,  of  the  very  best  soldiers  on  the  face  of  the  globe, 
and  Darrow  looked  back  over  the  brown  ranks  tramp 
ing  vigorously  along  the  road  in  his  wake,  with  pride 
which  only  those  who  have  had  under  them  devoted 
bodies  of  men  can  understand. 

There,  at  the  head  of  the  column,  rode  the  boyish 
Pleasants,  commanding  Darrow's  own  old  regiment, 
now  numbering  about  three  hundred  men.  Where 
were  the  rest  of  them  ?  Their  bones  lay  bleaching  upon 
battle-fields  all  over  Virginia — Manassas,  Malvern  Hill, 
Antietam,  Fredericksburg,  Chancellorsville;  yes,  and 
far  to  the  North  some  of  them  slept  on  the  soil  of 
Pennsylvania,  around  the  slopes  of  Gettysburg.  Now 
they  were  to  show  what  Lee's  veterans  could  do  in  the 
mountains  and  valleys  of  Georgia. 

His  particular  regiment  had  no  right  to  be  there 
either.  The  term  of  their  enlistment  had  expired. 
Had  they  chosen  to  do  so,  they  could  have  gone  di 
rectly  home  from  Ringgold  and  been  mustered  out  at 
Mobile  without  further  fighting.  But  there  was  not 
a  man  who  did  not  clamor  for  the  dread  opportunity 
of  Chickamauga. 


CHAPTER    XXV 


THE    NIGHT   BEFORE  THE  BATTLE 

LTHOUGH  the  brigade  marched  with 
a  long  swinging  step  that  carried  them 
forward  rapidly,  it  was  night  when 
they  reached  the  battle-field  of  that 
day  and  the  morrow.  This  was  a 
series  of  thickly  wooded  rolling  hills, 
broken  by  short  stretches  of  open  coun 
try,  pierced  by  many  ravines  and  a  few 
shallow  brooks  mostly  gone  dry,  with 
here  and  there  a  dilapidated  farm 
house.  As  they  crossed  deep,  steep- 
banked  Chickamauga  the  brigade  was 
halted  to  allow  the  men  to  wash  their 
dusty  faces  and  to  fill  their  canteens 
from  the  muddy  water  of  the  turbid 
creek.  Water  was  dreadfully  scarce  on  that  battle 
field.  The  heavy  acrid  smell  of  powder  hung  over  the 
field,  and  where  the  fighting  had  been  severest,  the 
sickly,  nauseous  taste  of  blood  was  in  the  heated  air. 
General  Rosecrans  had  concentrated  his  forces  be 
tween  Chickamauga  Creek  and  Missionary  Ridge, 
a  range  of  hills  intervening  between  his  rear  and  the 
town  of  Chattanooga,  which  was  the  objective  point 
of  the  campaign.  The  Army  of  the  Cumberland  num 
bering  at  the  beginning  of  the  first  day's  fighting  some 

212 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE 

fifty-five  thousand  men,  was  stretched  in  a  north  and 
south  line  at  the  foot  of  the  hills  facing  the  Chicka- 
mauga,  the  left  wing  under  General  Thomas,  covering 
the  direct  road  to  Chattanooga,  which  led  through  a 
pass  in  the  mountains,  called  Rossville  Gap.  Imme 
diately  in  the  rear  of  his  position  was  another  road, 
the  Dry  Valley  Road,  also  leading  into  Chattanooga 
through  McFarland's  Gap  in  the  mountains.  The 
Federal  line  was  some  five  miles  long. 

Fronting  the  Union  troops  lay  the  Army  of  the 
Tennessee  in  slightly  greater  numbers,  under  General 
Braxton  Bragg.  The  Confederate  captain  had  crossed 
the  Chickamauga  and  had  endeavored  to  throw  his 
right  wing  on  the  flank  of  his  enemy,  force  him  back 
from  Rossville  Gap,  and  interpose  his  army  between 
Rosecrans  and  Chattanooga.  The  Confederates  had 
attacked  the  Union  left  with  their  right,  in  great  force. 
The  Federal  troops  had  been  driven  back  from  their 
first  position  during  Saturday,  September  iQth,  al 
though  they  still  held  command  of  the  Rossville  and 
Dry  Valley  Roads,  and  Bragg  so  far  had  not  suc 
ceeded  in  his  plan.  He  determined,  however,  to  con 
tinue  the  battle  on  the  same  lines  the  next  morning. 

Both  armies  had  lost  heavily  during  the  hard  fight 
ing  of  the  day.  As  we  have  seen,  however,  there  came 
to  Bragg  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  a  re-enforcement  of 
an  army  corps  sent  by  Lee  from  Virginia  under  the 
command  of  that  peerless  soldier  James  Longstreet, 
with  such  lieutenants  as  John  B.  Hood,  and  Lafayette 
McLaws,  the  first  brigade  of  which  arrived  on  the 
field  on  the  evening  of  the 

213 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

All  night  long  the  veterans  of  the  famous  corps 
came  rolling  down  the  road  and  were  sent  to  their  ap 
pointed  positions.  This  with  other  re-enforcements 
raised  Bragg's  total  for  the  two  days'  fighting  to  over 
seventy  thousand  troops;  the  bulk  of  them  his  own 
seasoned  men  who  had  fought  from  Shiloh  to  Stone 
River,  and  fit  compeers  for  the  others.  The  tired  men 
munched  their  corn-bread  from  their  haversacks  and 
slept  shelterless  on  the  ground,  where  they  could  sleep 
at  all.  Solitary  guns  here  and  there  in  the  opposing 
line  sent  shells  at  intervals  screaming  through  the 
night,  keeping  all  but  the  most  indurated  veterans 
nervously  awake. 

The  woods  and  slopes  were  filled  with  killed  and 
wounded  men;  and  from  the  wounded,  moans  and 
screams,  with  piteous  appeals  for  water,  water,  rose 
in  mournful  chorus  over  the  field.  The  overworked 
exhausted  surgeons  and  chaplains  did  what  they  could 
for  them  and  so  the  long  night  wore  away. 

There  was  busy  planning  and  counselling  at  both 
headquarters  that  night.  Bragg  divided  his  army  into 
two  wings.  The  right  wing  which  was  to  attack 
Thomas's  left  and  endeavor  to  outflank  him,  was  put 
under  the  command  of  Leonidas  Polk,  the  Right 
Reverend  Bishop  of  Louisiana,  who  had  been  edu 
cated  at  West  Point  and  had  laid  down  the  shepherd's 
crook  to  draw  the  warrior's  sword.  Under  his  com 
mand  was  the  main  body  of  the  Army  of  the  Tennes 
see.  The  left  wing  was  committed  to  Longstreet  with 
his  own  veterans  and  Simon  Bolivar  Buckner's  corps, 
he  who  had  shown  his  courage  as  a  soldier  at  Fort 

214 


THE  NIGHT  BEFORE  THE  BATTLE 

Donelson.  The  attack  was  appointed  to  begin  at 
daybreak,  and  each  commander  was  directed  to  put 
into  it  every  last  soldier  he  had  in  the  end. 

Rosecrans,  a  far-seeing  strategist,  had  fully  divined 
his  antagonist's  purpose.  Indeed  the  heavy  attacks 
previously  thrown  upon  his  left  would  have  indicated 
the  plan  to  the  most  indifferent  soldier.  He  had 
therefore  strengthened  his  left  at  the  expense  of  his 
right.  He  knew  of  course  that  he  was  heavily  out 
numbered,  but  he  was  confident  of  winning;  his  con 
fidence  was  shared  by  his  corps  and  division  command 
ers  and  by  every  soldier  in  the  army.  Rosecrans 
was  ignorant  of  the  arrival  of  re-enforcements  to  the 
enemy,  but  it  would  have  made  no  difference  if  he  had 
known  it.  He  had  to  fight  where  he  was,  and  he  was 
willing  and  anxious  to  do  so. 

The  mainstay  of  the  Union  army  was  General 
George  H.  Thomas,  who  had  command  of  the  left 
wing,  situated  at  a  place  called  Kelley's  Field.  The 
troops  under  his  command  busied  themselves  during 
the  night,  so  far  as  time,  darkness,  and  the  lack  of  im 
plements  permitted,  in  throwing  up  a  slight  breast 
work  of  rails  in  front  of  them.  The  supply  trains  of 
both  armies  were  in  the  rear  of  the  various  positions, 
and  the  men  generally  breakfasted  on  what  cold  food 
remained  in  their  haversacks.  Many  of  them  had 
little  or  nothing. 

At  daybreak  a  low  mist,  or  fog,  covered  the  ground 
which  prevented  either  army  from  making  a  move. 
Finally  toward  half  after  nine,  the  mist  cleared  a  little 
and  the  attack  began. 

215 


CHAPTER    XXVI 


SMASHING   THROUGH    THE    UNION    LINE 


A 


T  nine  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  the 
20th  of  September,  1863,  the  tree-clad 
hills  in  front  of  General  Thomas's 
position  between  Chickamauga  Creek 
and  Missionary  Ridge,  covering  the 
road  through  Rossville  Gap  to  Chat 
tanooga,  were  suddenly  covered  with 
men  who  seemed  to  have  sprung  up 
by  magic,  as  they  rose  from  the  hol 
lows  in  which  they  had  lain  concealed. 
The  instant  crackling  of  the  rifles  and 
muskets  of  the  heavy  skirmish-line 
thrown  in  advance  of  the  battle-line 
soon  gave  place  to  crashing  volleys 
punctured  by  the  deeper  roar  of  can 
non  as  the  Southern  batteries  swung  front  into  action, 
pouring  their  grape,  shrapnel,  and  canister  into  their 
enemies.  It  seemed  to  the  Union  soldiers  that  scarcely 
a  moment  elapsed  between  the  appearance  and  the  ad 
vance  of  the  Confederates.  With  consummate  cour 
age  the  gray  masses  were  moved  forward  in  the  smoke 
and  hurled  upon  the  Federal  line,  and  with  equal  cour 
age  the  assault  was  met.  The  battle  raged  up  and 
down  the  Union  left  with  terrific  fierceness,  and  with 
no  present  advantage  as  yet  to  either  side. 

216 


SMASHING   THROUGH    THE    UNION    LINE 

Presently  out  of  the  smoke  and  dust,  far  to  the 
Union  left,  Breckinridge's  division,  overlapping 
Thomas's  shorter  line  by  a  long  distance,  swung 
around  across  the  Rossville  Road  and  attacked  the 
Union  line  in  reverse.  But  no  better  soldier,  no 
harder  fighter,  than  the  great  Virginian  ever  handled 
an  army.  Quick  to  take  in  the  significance  of  the 
dangerous  movement,  Thomas  threw  his  reserve  brig 
ades  in  fierce  countercharge  right  into  the  face  of 
Breckinridge,  and,  aided  by  a  timely  re-enforcement 
of  one  of  Negley's  brigades — although  the  whole  di 
vision  should  have  been  there  and  was  not — he 
forced  him  back  from  the  road  and  retained  control 
of  it. 

Again  and  again  Polk  forged  a  mighty  battle  ham 
mer  of  human  bodies  and  drove  it  against  the  Union 
left,  which  shivered  and  vibrated  under  the  terrific 
blows  rained  upon  it.  The  two  wings  charged  and 
recharged  across  the  disputed  ground.  Positions 
were  taken  and  retaken  again  and  again.  The  armies 
were  locked  in  a  mighty,  death-like  grip  of  battle — a 
writhing,  twisting  embrace  of  furious,  swaying  con 
flict. 

Meanwhile  the  front  of  Thomas's  command  was  so 
heavily  engaged  that  he  did  not  dare  to  weaken  it  to 
help  his  hard-pressed  left  flank  by  a  withdrawal  of  a 
single  regiment.  The  absence  of  Negley's  division, 
or  the  missing  two-thirds  of  it,  which  had  been  prom 
ised,  so  seriously  jeoparded  his  position  as  to  render 
it  almost  impossible  for  him  to  hold  it  in  the  face  of 
such  continuous  and  desperate  attacks,  Messenger 

217 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

after  messenger  came  to  Rosecrans  asking  reinforce 
ment. 

The  right  of  the  Union  army  had  so  far  only  been 
engaged  in  a  desultory  way  that  morning.  The  fight 
ing  as  yet  had  all  been  on  the  left.  The  neces 
sity  for  moving  his  right  wing  by  the  left  flank  was  im 
perative,  and  the  movement  was  at  once  begun  by 
the  Union  general.  This  is  always  a  difficult  evolu 
tion  in  front  of  an  enemy,  and  when  the  battle  is  in 
actual  course  the  difficulties  are  increased  a  thousand 
fold.  As  the  morning  wore  on  the  Confederate  at 
tack  was  extended  from  left  to  right  with  gradually 
increasing  force.  Bragg  divined  Rosecrans's  purpose, 
and  he  endeavored  to  make  him  maintain  his  lines, 
and  so  prevent  detachment  to  the  left,  which  he  hoped 
to  overwhelm.  At  any  rate,  he  determined  to  strike 
the  Union  troops  moving  to  reinforce  Thomas  on  their 
unprotected  flanks,  as  they  passed. 

Still,  the  fighting  on  the  Federal  right  was  as  yet 
by  no  means  severe,  although  the  demonstrations  of 
the  Confederates  were  growing  stronger  with  every 
moment,  and  their  troops  were  being  moved  forward 
on  the  right  for  a  general  action  all  along  the  line.  By 
half  after  eleven  o'clock  a  misunderstood  order, 
which  was  at  the  same  time  badly  expressed,  with 
drew  a  whole  Federal  division  from  its  place  in  the 
line  near  the  centre,  moved  it  to  the  left,  and  placed  it 
in  the  rear  of  Thomas's  heavily  assailed  position. 
There  was  a  great  hole  opened  in  the  Union  line.  John 
B.  Hood,  one  of  the  most  magnificently  reckless  fight 
ers  in  the  Southern  army,  detected  it  through  his  skir- 

218 


SMASHING   THROUGH    THE    UNION    LINE 

mishers.  The  news  was  at  once  carried  to  Long- 
street,  and  he  massed  his  corps  for  an  instant  attack, 
appreciating  the  brilliancy  of  the  opportunity  before 
him. 

With  masterly  tactics  Longstreet  threw  his  veterans 
into  a  column  of  brigades  at  half  distance,  Hood  lead 
ing  the  column  in  person.  With  fixed  bayonets  and 
at  a  double-quick  they  moved  down  past  a  little  farm 
house  which  from  the  name  of  its  owner  gave  the 
title  to  the  Brotherton  Road.  The  men  in  the  open 
flanks  of  the  Union  army  on  either  side  of  this  vast 
chasm  were  completely  exposed  to  the  Confederate 
avalanche,  pouring  into  the  gap  in  solid  column,  the 
fierce  rebel  yell,  first  heard  from  the  lips  of  John  Sevier, 
one  hundred  years  before  in  Tennessee,  ringing  over 
the  field.  At  the  same  instant  every  battery  of  South 
ern  artillery  opened  fire.  Buckner's  corps  hurled 
itself  upon  the  attenuated  Union  lines  on  the  right  of 
the  opening,  Stewart's  division  on  the  left  of  it,  at  the 
same  time  Longstreet  pierced  the  centre. 

The  Federal  General  Davis  threw  his  two  brigades 
heroically  upon  this  mighty  gray  column.  A  few  swift 
volleys  from  the  advancing  Confederates  shattered 
their  ranks,  and  when  the  division  fell  upon  them  with 
the  bayonet  they  drove  them  like  leaves  in  a  winter 
storm.  The  Union  batteries  in  the  rear  of  the  line  sent 
canister  and  grape  tearing  and  ripping  through  the 
advancing  battalions ;  but  their  blood  was  up,  nothing 
could  stop  their  irresistible  advance.  Davis's  men, 
taken  in  front  and  rear  and  flying  for  their  lives,  burst 
into  the  ranks  of  Phil  Sheridan's  oncoming  division, 

219 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

throwing  them  into  hopeless  confusion,  in  which  con 
dition  the  gray  battle  storm  surged  down  upon  them. 
In  spite  of  the  heroic  efforts  of  that  commander  they 
were  thrown  into  complete  rout  and  swept  away  in 
mad  disorder.  Brigadier-General  Lytle,  the  poet-sol 
dier,  was  killed  in  front  of  his  brigade,  vainly  striving 
to  rally  his  shattered  disorganized  troops  and  hold 
his  lines. 

While  this  terrible  catastrophe  was  happening  Buck- 
ner's  soldiers,  advancing  with  equal  valor,  fell  upon  the 
remainder  of  the  right-centre  wing  of  the  Union  army 
and  drove  it  before  them  in  hopeless  and  inextricable 
disorganization.  Men,  guns,  horses,  and  wagons,  in 
a  chaos  of  confusion,  streamed  back  from  the  battle- 
line,  and  were  scattered  through  the  woods  and  down 
the  Dry  Valley  Road  toward  McFarland's  Gap.  Some 
of  them  were  halted  on  the  other  side  of  the  ridge,  at 
Rossville,  but  many  did  not  stop  until  they  reached 
Chattanooga. 

Into  this  flying  mass  the  Confederate  guns  poured 
shot  and  shell.  The  Union  batteries  were  captured 
and  turned  against  their  own  men.  Rosecrans,  the 
commander-in-chief,  McCook,  Davis,  Sheridan,  and 
Crittenden,  protesting,  cursing,  imploring,  raging,  be 
seeching,  were  swept  along  with  the  rest  in  a  mad, 
tumultuous  rout.  The  Union  right  wing  had  been 
hammered  to  pieces.  The  Union  line  had  been  riven 
in  two,  and  one  side  of  it  crushed  like  a  house  of  cards 
beaten  down  by  a  hammer.  And  it  had  all  happened 
in  a  few  moments. 

Far  to  the  left  Thomas  and  his  battalions,  ignorant 
220 


SMASHING   THROUGH    THE    UNION    LINE 

of  the  disaster,  still  stood  fighting  with  desperate  valor. 
Longstreet  now  turned  his  men  toward  that  flank 
and  what  was  left  of  the  Union  centre,  and  repeated 
with  great  success  his  attack  on  the  right.  The  Union 
troops  were  slammed  backward  like  a  door.  Hood 
was  desperately  wounded,  and  Longstreet  led  his  lines 
in  person,  Bushrod  Johnson's  brigade  in  advance. 
The  Union  troops  in  the  centre  made  a  better  resist 
ance  and  somewhat  delayed  the  advance.  They 
changed  front  under  fire  and  clung  tenaciously  to  their 
new  line,  facing  the  gap  and  the  victory-flushed  foe. 
But  they  too  had  to  give  way  before  the  furious  dash 
and  overwhelming  onslaught  of  the  victorious  Con 
federates,  now  in  greatly  superior  force,  until  finally 
there  was  nothing  left  of  the  Union  line  but  the  still 
heavily  assaulted  left  wing. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 


T 


"THE  ROCK  OF  CHICKAMAUGA" 

HERE  was  now  a  lull  in  the  battle 
on  the  right.  The  fierce  charge  and 
countercharge  were  intermitted.  Long- 
street  was  reforming  his  men,  prepar 
ing  to  sweep  Thomas  from  the  field. 
So,  too,  there  was  a  momentary  re 
spite  from  the  attacks  to  which  the 
Union  left  had  been  subjected  all 
morning.  The  two  exhausted  armies 
rested  where  they  were  for  a  breath 
ing  space  ere  they  renewed  the  action. 
Thomas  took  advantage  of  this  respite 
to  withdraw  his  troops  to  the  rear  to 
a  more  favorable  defensive  position. 
There  was  a  semicircular  hill  back  of 
Kelley's  Field,  called  by  many  on  account  of  its  shape 
The  Horseshoe,  and  by  others  Snodgrass  Hill,  from 
the  home  of  a  small  farmer  which  stood  on  the  top  of 
it.  A  spur  of  Missionary  Ridge  extending  out  to  the 
eastward,  it  rises  about  one  hundred  feet  above  the  sur 
rounding  country.  Its  top  is  undulating  and  broken. 
Some  distance  to  the  westward,  in  the  rear  of  its  crest, 
there  is  a  shallow  ravine  beyond  which  rise  other  hills, 
one  ridge  in  particular  running  east  and  west  and  com 
manding  The  Horseshoe.  It  was  thickly  wooded  and 
in  places  very  steep.  As  it  covered  both  the  Rossville 

222 


"THE    ROCK    OF    CHICKAMAUGA" 

and  Dry  Valley  Roads,  Thomas  determined  to  re 
establish  his  line  there. 

The  troops  as  they  retreated  up  the  slopes  were 
thrown  around  the  crest  of  the  hill  and  preparations 
made  for  another  series  of  assaults  to  be  expected. 
Firing  on  the  right  had  not  yet  been  resumed,  and 
Thomas,  ignorant  of  the  disaster,  having  received  no 
word,  fancied  this  to  mean  the  Rebels  had  been  re 
pulsed,  and  had  given  over  the  attack.  He  confidently 
expected  reinforcements  and  fought  on,  eagerly  look 
ing  for  the  hoped-for  succor.  He  did  not  know  that 
he  was  left  alone  with  his  four  divisions  to  fight  the 
whole  Confederate  army. 

Presently  a  cloud  of  dust  rising  above  the  tree-tops 
indicated  a  body  of  men  approaching  Snodgrass  Hill 
from  the  right.  Hoping,  praying,  that  it  was  Sheri 
dan's  division  coming  to  his  assistance,  Thomas  di 
rected  a  staff-officer  to  ride  down  and  make  sure  of 
it.  The  soldier  came  back  at  full  gallop  and  reported 
that  he  did  not  think  it  was  Sheridan's  division,  but 
the  troops  of  the  enemy. 

Surprised  beyond  measure  and  scarcely  able  to 
credit  the  astounding  tidings,  Thomas  yet  acted  in  the 
emergency  with  promptness.  He  threw  one  of  his 
brigades  forward  with  instructions  to  feel  the  advan 
cing  troops,  attack  them  immediately  and  stop  them  if 
they  were  enemies.  Soon  the  quick  rattle  of  mus 
ketry  apprised  him  that  the  supposition  of  the  staff- 
ofricer  was  correct.  He  was  still  ignorant  of  the  mag 
nitude  of  the  catastrophe,  but  he  realized  that  some 
thing  terrible  must  have  happened  to  permit  the 

223 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

enemy  to  approach  so  near  his  right  and  rear.  He 
deemed  them  to  be  in  great  force,  too,  from  the  rapid 
annihilation  of  the  brigade  that  he  had  thrown  for 
ward,  which  made  a  splendid  fight  before  it  was  wiped 
out.  To  meet  this  new  danger  Thomas  hurriedly  ex 
tended  his  lines  to  the  right  and  rear  along  the  edge 
of  the  hill,  occupying  the  position  at  first  by  a  single 
Ohio  regiment,  and  reinforcing  it  by  stragglers  from 
different  divisions,  who  began  drifting  into  his  lines 
in  considerable  numbers  from  the  routed  right.  Each 
one  brought  a  tale  of  defeat  and  disaster  which  might 
well  have  appalled  the  stoutest  heart. 

It  did  not  take  Thomas  many  minutes  to  surmise 
that  he  was  left  with  a  fraction  of  the  Union  troops  to 
hold  Snodgrass  Hill  in  the  face  of  the  whole  Confeder 
ate  army.  If  he  gave  way,  if  he  retreated  or  were 
driven  from  that  field,  the  Army  of  the  Cumberland 
would  be  irretrievably  ruined,  routed,  smashed,  bat 
tered  to  pieces,  destroyed. 

To  give  way  never  entered  his  head  for  a  moment. 
Disposing  his  troops  as  best  he  could  and  putting 
every  last  man  he  could  gather  up  in  position,  he  de 
termined  to  stand  where  he  was  and  hold  the  hill  until, 
as  one  of  his  subordinates  expressed  it,  "they  went 
to  heaven  from  it." 

The  expected  attack  was  not  long  in  coming. 
Sweeping  forward  with  resistless  force,  excited  and 
stimulated  by  their  tremendous  successes  of  the  morn 
ing,  Longstreet's  veterans  hurled  themselves  upon  the 
hill.  Again  and  again  the  gray  deluge  came  rolling 
up  the  slope  as  a  mighty  wave  assaults  a  rocky  shore. 

224 


"THE    ROCK    OF    CHICKAMAUGA" 

Again  and  again  they  were  beaten  back  by  the  wall  of 
fire  which  ringed  its  crest.  The  continuous  rattle  of 
the  musketry  was  like  the  rolling  of  a  mighty  drum. 
It  was  scarcely  possible  on  either  side  to  use  artillery 
to  much  advantage,  and  the  men  fought  it  out  in  hand- 
to-hand  attacks  mainly,  with  small-arms. 

Sometimes  when  the  desperate  gray  ranks  perilously 
neared  the  crest  a  countercharge  with  fixed  bayonets 
drove  them,  after  horrible  struggles,  down  the  hill. 
The  carnage  was  frightful.  The  slopes  were  soon 
covered  with  dead  and  dying.  There  was  no  water  to 
be  had,  no  food,  no  rest,  no  respite  even.  It  was  fight, 
fight,  fight,  God !  until  the  brain  reeled.  The  hill  ran 
with  blood.  There  was  a  little  pond  on  the  field. 
Divisions  fought  for  it,  wounded  men  and  horses 
struggled  to  it,  buried  their  heads  in  the  sickening 
bloody  water — drank  and  died. 

The  heat  was  terrific.  The  dry  trees  and  under 
brush  caught  fire  here  and  there  from  the  rifle-blasts. 
The  smoke  hung  low  over  the  hill.  Men's  forms  ap 
peared  through  it  in  ghastly  yellow  outlines.  The 
flashes  of  the  rifles  and  guns  pierced  the  murky  clouds 
with  long  lances  of  flame. 

The  yelling  and  cheering  continuously  rose  and  fell 
as  the  charge  and  countercharge  set  the  men  against 
each  other,  and  throughout  the  chaotic  tumult  might 
be  heard  the  piteous  cries  of  the  wounded,  cries  of 
anguish,  cries  for  water,  water,  water!  And  none 
could  help  them.  No  man  could  be  spared  from  the 
fighting  lines  on  either  side !  The  men  were  there  to 
kill,  not  to  save;  to  destroy,  not  to  help. 

225 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

The  field  swam  redly  before  the  eyes  of  the  fighters. 
Drunk  with  battle,  they  moved  like  men  in  some 
hideous  dream,  striking  where  they  fancied  they  saw 
a  breast  holding  a  heart  come  bursting  upon  them  out 
of  the  smoke;  pouring  shot  at  short  range  into  masses 
of  men;  reeling  in  awful  grapple  to  and  fro,  up  and 
down,  on  that  terrible  hill.  War,  war,  war,  in  its 
glory,  its  majesty,  its  awful  appalling  horror,  was 
there ! 

There  were  no  reserve  troops  which  could  be  used 
to  strengthen  the  weak  parts  of  the  Union  line.  The 
men  stood  where  they  were  and  fought  it  out  as  best 
they  could.  Thomas  rode  from  flank  to  centre,  from 
centre  to  flank,  and  held  the  place  with  iron  resolution, 
while  Longstreet  and  Polk  threw  themselves  upon  it 
with  headlong  valor. 

As  fresher  troops  arrived  from  the  Confederate  left, 
where  they  were  no  longer  needed  since  there  were 
no  enemies  left  before  them,  they  were  extended  on 
the  left  of  Longstreet's  columns  to  menace  Thomas's 
right  and  rear.  Across  the  ravine  was  that  high  ridge, 
which  overlooked  the  hill.  The  quick  eye  of  Long- 
street,  after  the  futility  of  his  first  assaults  had  been 
demonstrated,  saw  that  this  ridge  was  the  key  to  the 
position.  If  he  could  seize  it  and  hold  it  with  his 
guns  he  could  send  his  men  through  the  sheltered  ra 
vine  and  take  the  thin  Union  line  in  reverse.  He 
could  extend  opposite  either  flank  of  it,  or  the  centre, 
and  no  soldiers  that  ever  lived  could  hold  that  posi 
tion  then. 

Thomas  had  been  equally  quick,  in  the  varying 
226 


"THE    ROCK    OF    CHICKAMAUGA" 

phases  of  the  battle,  to  detect  the  vital  importance  of 
the  ridge  to  the  position  on  which  he  was  making  his 
last  stand,  but  he  was  helpless  to  seize  it.  He  had  not 
a  single  soldier  that  he  could  put  on  it.  His  men  were 
fighting  with  the  energy  and  courage  of  despair.  His 
attenuated  lines  were  liable  to  be  pierced  at  half  a 
dozen  points  at  any  moment.  To  withdraw  a  regi 
ment,  a  company,  a  man,  would  leave  a  hole  which 
could  only  be  filled  by  the  enemy. 

He  began  to  despair  at  last,  but  there  was  nothing 
that  he  could  do  but  hold  on  as  he  was.  He  had 
heard  nothing  from  Rosecrans  yet.  He  could  hope 
for  no  reinforcements  now.  If  Longstreet  seized  that 
ridge  it  would  be  good-by  to  them.  Thomas  knew 
that  his  opponent  was  too  good  a  soldier  not  to  make 
the  attempt.  Well,  they  had  fought  a  good  fight, 
they  had  made  a  splendid  defence.  As  long  as  men 
lived  it  would  never  be  forgotten.  And  they  could 
at  least  die  on  the  field  they  had  hallowed  with  their 
valor.  These  were  his  final  thoughts,  but  it  was  with 
anguish  unspeakable  that  he  saw  the  preparations 
being  made  to  occupy  the  ridge. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII 


"TOWARD  THE  SOUND  OF  THE  CANNON" 


A 


WAY  off  on  Ringgold  Road  three 
small  brigades  of  the  Union  army, 
under  Major-General  Gordon  Granger, 
lay  on  their  arms  around  McAffee 
Church,  on  that  dreadful  Sunday  morn 
ing.  Far  to  the  right  of  them  from 
the  deep  woods  enshrouding  the  battle 
field,  the  roar  of  the  conflict  trembled 
up  through  the  air.  They  had  been 
placed  on  that  road  to  cover  any  pos 
sible  attack  on  the  far  left,  with  in 
structions  to  remain  there  until  or 
dered  away.  No  enemy  was  near 
them,  and  it  seemed  evident  that  none 
was  likely  to  approach  them. 
As  the  sound  of  the  battle  grew  deeper  and  fiercer, 
as  its  thunder  rolled  back  and  forth  in  ever-increasing 
detonation  over  the  hills,  the  commander  of  the  corps, 
charing  impatiently  at  this  inaction,  determined  at 
last  to  advance  toward  the  fighting.  Disregarding  his 
orders,  on  his  own  motion  about  noon  he  started  for 
Thomas's  position.  Leaving  one  brigade  to  hold  the 
road,  the  men  marched  rapidly  through  the  heat  and 
dust  toward  the  sound  of  the  cannon. 

Avoiding  bodies  of  cavalry  skirmishing  in  this  direc- 
228 


"TOWARD  THE  SOUND  OF  THE  CANNON" 

tion,  by  leaving  the  road  and  plunging  through  the 
woods,  the  troops  came  swiftly  on.  As  they  advanced 
they  saw  evidences  of  the  disintegration  of  the  army 
— panic-stricken  fugitives,  wounded  soldiers,  aban 
doned  wagons,  broken  guns,  terrified  men,  weaponless 
regiments,  masterless  horses,  the  shattered  remains  of 
a  routed  army,  surging  toward  Rossville,  stopping  for 
nothing.  Directing  the  division  commander,  General 
Steedman,  to  come  forward  at  the  quickest  possible 
speed,  Granger  with  his  staff  galloped  ahead  toward 
Snodgrass  Hill,  which  he  could  see  through  the  trees, 
blazing  like  a  volcano,  smoking  like  a  furnace,  shak 
ing  like  an  earthquake,  roaring  like  a  tornado. 

Thomas  had  seen  the  clouds  of  dust  raised  in  the 
dry  air  by  the  approaching  troops.  What  could  that 
mean?  Who  could  they  be?  Had  the  Confederates 
got  to  the  rear  of  that  long-assailed  left  flank  at  last? 
Was  he  to  be  completely  surrounded  and  annihilated 
on  that  ghastly  hill?  His  relief,  therefore,  when  he 
learned  that  the  on-coming  troops  were  the  men  of 
Rosecrans's  reserve  corps,  can  scarcely  be  imagined. 
The  new  troops  as  they  neared  the  hill  came  forward 
on  the  run.  By  God's  providence  they  reached  the 
place  about  two  o'clock  just  as  the  advance  of  Hind- 
man's  division  of  Longstreet's  corps  deployed  on  the 
crest  of  the  ridge  and  began  filling  the  ravine  back  of 
the  hill. 

A  word  or  two  put  Granger  in  possession  of  the 
situation.  Without  stopping  for  breath  even,  Steed 
man  was  ordered  to  take  the  hill  and  drive  the  Con 
federates  out  of  the  pass.  If  they  had  come  a  moment 

229 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

later  Longstreet's  men  would  have  established  them 
selves  there,  and  that  would  have  been  an  end  of 
Thomas's  troops.  But  they  had  arrived  at  the  very 
crucial  moment.  Steedman  was  on  horseback.  Seiz 
ing  a  regimental  flag,  he  put  himself  at  the  head  of  his 
men  and  gave  the  order  to  charge.  Thomas  and 
Granger  rode  forward  to  superintend  and  observe.  The 
bullets  whistled  about  them.  Steedman  was  wounded, 
his  horse  was  shot,  and  he  was  pitched  forward  in 
the  melee,  his  two  brigadiers  went  down,  but  still  the 
shouting  soldiers  kept  on.  Down  the  ravine  and  up 
the  hill  they  poured  in  an  irresistible  torrent. 

For  twenty  minutes  pandemonium  reigned.  The 
passions  of  hell  were  let  loose.  At  the  end  of  that 
time  the  hill  was  gained,  the  ravine  cleared,  and  over 
two  thousand  men  in  blue  and  gray  lay  dead  and  dying 
on  its  slopes.  They  had  saved  the  army.  The  battle 
all  around  the  circle  had  not  been  intermitted  a  mo 
ment  during  this  episode  either.  And  now  the  am 
munition  of  Thomas's  men  was  almost  expended.  But 
Granger's  men  shared  theirs  with  their  comrades,  and 
there  was  a  slight  lull  in  the  conflict  again  after  this  re 
pulse  of  the  attempt  to  take  the  ridge,  while  both  sides 
prepared  for  its  renewal. 


CHAPTER    XXIX 


L 


THE    LAST   CHARGE 

ONGSTREET,  keeping  up  his  fire  on 
the  hill,  sent  to  Bragg  for  reinforce 
ments  to  make  another  attack,  and 
was  informed  that  every  available  man 
was  already  in  the  battle-line. 

Thomas's  position  could  not  be  out 
flanked.  He  must  be  driven  from  it 
by  direct  assault  or  not  at  all.  Long- 
street  had  one  small  division.  Pres 
ton's,  of  Buckner's  corps,  in  reserve 
which  had  not  yet  been  heavily  en 
gaged.  At  the  front  of  it,  to  strength 
en  it,  he  put  Darrow's  brigade.  His 
men  had  waited  their  turn  with  the 
philosophy  of  veterans  who  knew  that 
the  day  could  not  pass  without  their 
being  poured  into  that  smelting  furnace  of  death  and 
destruction.  They  had  moved  forward  in  the  wake 
of  the  grand  assaulting  column,  and  were  now  drawn 
up  just  out  of  range  from  the  hill  under  the  trees. 
At  the  head  of  the  brigade  rode  Pleasants  with  what 
was  left  of  his  Alabamians. 

Longstreet  called  General  Preston  to  him  and 
pointed  out  the  necessity  of  capturing  the  hill.  No 
fewer  than  five  desperate  assaults  between  noon  and 

231 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

that  hour,  five  o'clock,  had  already  been  made  on  that 
hill.  Each  succeeding  one  had  risen  higher  on  the 
slope,  got  nearer  to  the  crest,  than  the  others;  and 
their  course  might  have  been  marked  by  the  lines  of 
dead,  the  hill  being  so  covered  with  bodies  that  its 
natural  surface  was  scarcely  discernible.  This  was  the 
last  supreme  effort.  If  it  failed  there  could  be  no  more 
assaults  on  that  hill  that  day. 

That  instinctive  feeling  for  a  crisis,  that  premoni 
tion  of  danger,  which  goes  to  make  a  great  leader,  led 
Thomas  to  expect,  and,  in  so  far  as  he  could,  prepare 
for  this  final  effort.  As  he  detected  the  ranks  of  the 
enemy  being  deployed  under  the  smoke-filled  trees, 
he  rode  along  the  lines  to  encourage  his  men  for  one 
last  stand.  Even  after  stripping  the  cartridge-boxes 
of  the  dead  he  found  that  they  had  scarcely  an  aver 
age  of  three  rounds  of  ammunition  left  per  man.  He 
cautioned  them  to  withhold  their  fire  until  it  would 
tell  the  most,  and  when  they  had  exhausted  their 
cartridges,  to  charge  the  advancing  troops  with  the 
bayonet,  to  give  them  the  cold  steel.  Faint,  weary, 
hungry,  thirsty,  oh,  God,  terribly  thirsty,  the  heroic 
men  sent  up  a  hoarse  cheer  as  they  heard  his  words,  or 
saw  him  ride  calm  and  collected  amidst  the  storm. 
They  drew  in  their  belts,  looked  to  their  muskets  and 
bayonets,  and  determined  that  the  end  would  find  them 
dead  or  alive,  as  it  might  chance,  but  in  any  event  in 
their  places  in  the  ranks.  The  wounded  who  were 
able  to  handle  a  rifle  joined  their  unhurt  comrades  on 
the  battle-line. 

Darrow  and  the  field-officers,  after  a  few  words  to 
232 


THE    LAST    CHARGE 

their  men,  dismounted  from  their  horses  and  without 
further  preliminaries  took  up  the  advance,  Longstreet 
and  the  rest  looking  painfully  on.  The  troops  came 
forward  in  long  lines.  They  stepped  out  deliberately 
at  first,  keeping  their  dress  on  the  flags,  and  then 
more  rapidly  at  the  double-quick. 

There  was  a  grim,  set  look  on  Darrow's  face  as  he 
led  them  toward  the  hill.  He  had  been  stricken  to  the 
heart  by  Mary  Annan's  letter,  which  he  had  read  by 
the  light  of  a  camp-fire  that  night,  and  he  cared  noth 
ing  whatever  for  any  bodily  mischance  that  might  be 
fall  him.  Indeed,  he  would  have  welcomed  a  shot  to 
strike  him  down.  Everything  had  gone  out  of  his 
life  with  her  words  except  his  duty  as  a  soldier.  Pleas- 
ants,  in  command  of  the  first  regiment,  kept  near  him 
as  they  advanced.  Such  a  look  of  desperate  deter 
mination  commingled  with  reckless  indifference,  and 
heartbroken  anguish,  he  had  never  seen  on  a  man's 
face.  In  spite  of  the  engrossing  nature  of  the  task 
before  him  he  could  scarcely  keep  his  eyes  from  Dar- 
row. 

As  the  men  reached  the  foot  of  the  slope  they  burst 
into  loud  yells  and  cheers,  and  dashed  at  it  in  a  wild 
run.  It  was  so  thick  with  bodies  dead  and  living  that 
they  were  forced  to  trample  ruthlessly  upon  them, 
silent  or  shrieking,  as  they  advanced.  The  hill  was 
slippery  with  blood,  they  found,  as  they  struggled  up 
its  steep  sides. 

The  crest  was  strangely  silent  for  the  moment. 
Could  it  be  that  the  Federal  troops  had  withdrawn? 
They  would  soon  find  out.  At  command  the  front 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

rank  fired  a  volley,  and  dropping  to  its  knees  was 
passed  by  the  second  rank,  which  ran  a  little  distance 
farther  and  fired,  and  then  by  the  other  rank,  which 
did  the  same  thing.  So  shifting  and  weaving  back  and 
forth  they  climbed  up  and  up.  By  this  time  they  were 
near  the  crest  and  still  no  answer  came  from  the  men 
they  hoped  to  sweep  before  them. 

Ah,  there  it  was  at  last.  Trumpet  calls  rang  out. 
Flags  were  suddenly  lifted.  Now  the  crest  was  filled 
with  men.  The  two  forces  were  so  near  each  other 
they  could  peer  into  the  faces  opposite.  Some  of 
the  men  on  the  hill  were  laughing  like  maniacs,  some 
yelling  frantically,  some  were  silent  and  awe-stricken, 
some  stood  with  lips  drawn  back  from  the  teeth  as  a 
snarling  dog  at  bay,  some  were  indifferent,  some  pale, 
some  flushed,  their  faces  engorged  with  blood.  Back 
of  them  officers  on  horseback  rode  near  the  edge. 
There  was  Thomas  himself,  silent,  stern,  impassive, 
determined. 

The  advancing  troops  had  time  but  for  a  single 
glance,  and  the  hill  was  crested  with  flame  again.  A 
stream  of  bullets  poured  down  the  slope  which  swept 
them  away  in  scores.  The  assaulting  column  returned 
the  withering  fire  as  best  they  could,  still  wavering  on. 
Again  it  was  repeated.  Finally  every  other  man  in 
that  first  brigade  was  shot  down.  The  survivors 
halted  and  stood  there  unable  to  go  forward,  too  proud 
to  go  back.  It  was  such  a  fire  as  no  mortal  man  ap 
parently  could  withstand,  yet  such  was  the  magnificent 
valor  of  those  troops  that  when  Darrow,  looking  the 
desperate  hero  he  was,  tore  the  colors  of  his  old  regi- 

234 


THE   LAST    CHARGE 

ment  from  the  hand  of  a  color-bearer  and  sprang  to 
the  front  the  men  with  bayonets  at  charge  leaped  after 
him.  The  third  volley  the  last  for  many,  rang  out. 
The  head  of  the  column  was  blown  to  pieces.  It  was 
riddled  like  a  sieve,  torn  to  rags,  but  it  came  on  still. 
A  bullet  struck  Darrow  in  the  breast  and  tore  through 
his  lungs.  He  wavered. 

"Save  the  flag,"  he  cried  to  Pleasants,  who  was  next 
him,  and  then  he  pitched  violently  forward  on  his  face. 

The  blue  troops  on  the  hill  were  coming  now.  With 
fixed  bayonets  they  came  pouring  down  the  slope. 
The  roar  of  the  musketry  died  away  as  the  two  lines 
met  and  was  succeeded  by  the  ringing  of  steel  on 
steel  and  the  shouts  and  struggles  of  the  men.  A 
little  handful  of  his  own  men  rallied  around  Pleasants 
and  his  flag.  He  cut  down  two  or  three  who  came  in 
touch  with  his  weapon,  and  stoutly  strove  to  hold  his 
ground,  but  to  little  avail.  The  scattering  discharges 
and  the  fierce  onset  delivered  from  above  slowly  swept 
the  scattered  division  down  the  hill.  Pleasants  turned, 
gathered  the  flag  to  his  breast,  and  followed  the  rem 
nants  of  his  men.  He  had  stood  there  on  that  line 
until  he  had  been  left  alone.  Those  who  had  rallied 
around  him  had  been  killed  at  his  feet.  The  staff  and 
flag  were  spattered  with  blood.  He  could  do  no  more. 
They  were  beaten  back.  They  had  failed.  Only  duty 
remained.  He  would  save  that  old  hallowed  battle- 
riven  banner. 

A  scattering  fire  pursued  the  retreating  Confeder 
ates  down  the  hill.  One  bullet  struck  Pleasants  in 
the  ankle.  He  fell,  and  the  flag  pitched  forward. 

235 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

With  superhuman  resolution  he  dragged  himself  to  his 
feet  again,  picked  up  the  flag,  staggered  a  few  painful 
steps,  dropped  to  his  knees,  and  crawled  down  the 
hill.  A  few  of  the  troops  above  who  had  cartridges 
left  levelled  their  pieces  at  him,  but  the  colonel  in  im 
mediate  command  of  the  troops  nearest  him,  filled  with 
admiration  for  Pleasants's  courage,  ordered  his  men 
to  cease  firing.  The  attack  was  over.  It  had  failed. 
Let  the  crawling  hero  save  his  flag. 

As  the  man  in  gray  crawled,  rolled,  fell  down  the 
hill  the  Union  officer  ran  toward  the  prostrate  form 
of  the  Confederate  who  had  led  the  gallant  advance. 
He  was  nearest  of  any  others  to  the  crest.  He  was 
lying  prone  with  his  body  slightly  lifted  on  his  left 
arm.  His  set  face  was  ghastly  pale.  His  right  hand 
was  fumbling  at  his  breast.  As  the  Federal  officer 
approached  him  by  a  violent  effort  he  drew  a  letter 
from  his  pocket,  a  blood-stained,  crumpled  letter. 

"Free !"  he  murmured,  as  the  Union  colonel  knelt 
by  him.  "Tell  Mary " 

There  was  a  gush  of  blood  from  his  lips.  He 
dropped  shudderingly  down  on  his  face. 

At  the  foot  of  the  hill  Pleasants  fainted  from  pain 
and  exhaustion.  But  the  men  of  his  regiment  found 
the  flag  tightly  clasped  in  his  hand.  Two  hundred  of 
them  who  had  answered  the  roll-call  of  that  morning 
had  been  stricken  down  in  that  holocaust  of  death,  on 
that  hill  of  hell.  Seventy  per  cent,  had  gone  in  that 
last  mad,  terrible  assault. 

There  was  no  more  fighting  that  night.  Under 
orders  from  Rosecrans,  Thomas  withdrew  with  but 

236 


"Save  the  flag,"  he  cried  to  Pleasants. 


THE    LAST    CHARGE 

little  additional  loss  through  Rossville  Gap  toward 
Chattanooga  after  dark.  Bragg  had  won  a  great  vic 
tory,  but  he  had  paid  a  fearful  price  for  it.  Over 
twenty  thousand,  or  about  thirty  per  cent.,  of  his 
troops  had  fallen.  In  Longstreet's  corps  alone  the 
loss  had  been  over  forty  per  cent.,  and  there  were  doz 
ens  of  regiments  in  both  armies  whose  losses  had  ex 
ceeded  fifty  per  cent. 

The  Confederates  had  driven  the  Union  army  from 
the  field,  a  large  part  of  it  in  hopeless  rout.  Thomas's 
determined  stand  had  saved  the  Union  army  from  en 
tire  annihilation.  Well  did  men  style  the  great  Vir 
ginian  thereafter  'The  Rock  of  Chickamauga." 

And  nowhere  upon  this  continent  before  or  since 
was  there  seen  such  desperate  fighting  as  had  ranged 
around  the  horseshoe  slopes  of  Snodgrass  Hill.  There 
was  little  to  choose  between  either  army.  Both  on 
that  awful  day  had  risen  to  the  highest  measure  of  the 
stature  of  American  manhood  and  valor.  And  six 
teen  thousand  men  in  blue  were  left  on  the  field. 


CHAPTER    XXX 


THE    RELIEF   THAT   SHAMED 


O 


N  Monday,  the  2ist  of  September,  the 
first  report  of  the  battle  reached  Mo 
bile.  A  brief  telegram  told  of  the  re 
sult  of  the  action,  but  gave  no  details. 
The  air,  however,  was  thick  with  ru 
mors  of  the  most  extravagant  and  ex 
aggerated  kind  and  as  variable  as  they 
were  frequent.  This  gossiping  method 
of  transmitting  information  from  hand 
to  mouth,  as  it  were,  was  prevalent  in 
those  days  of  meagre  facilities  for 
communication,  and  was  popularly 
known  as  the  "grapevine  telegraph." 

The  women  of  Mobile  had  waited 
for  too  many  bulletins  from  battle 
fields  to  experience  anything  novel  in  the  way  of  sen 
sation  on  that  day  and  the  succeeding  ones.  There 
were  many  who  had  scanned  lists  of  killed,  wounded, 
and  missing,  in  the  regiments  for  the  names  of  loved 
ones,  who  would  do  so  no  longer.  To  many  of  them 
had  come  the  miserable  certainty  that  their  interest  in 
the  welfare  of  the  regiment  was  no  longer  personal. 
But  there  remained  still  a  goodly  number  who  watched 
for  the  return  of  the  casualties  in  the  old  regiment, 
with  heart-tearing  anxiety  that  deepened  and  deepened. 

238 


THE    RELIEF    THAT    SHAMED 

However,  as  more  and  more  ghastly  details  of  the 
horrors  of  that  awful  slaughter  and  carnage  filtered 
through  the  rumors  in  the  brief  infrequent  telegrams, 
the  greater  became  the  anxiety.  What  wonder  that 
women  sickened  and  failed  under  the  strain?  With 
added  information  came  the  certainty  that  the  old 
regiment  had  suffered  severely  again.  Who  were  left? 
Who  were  taken  this  time?  Questions  like  these 
quivered  on  every  lip  in  the  suspense.  Yet  there  was 
a  strange  feeling  of  pride  that  mingled  with  their 
anxiety;  abstractly  they  would  not  have  had  it  other 
wise,  they  gloried  in  the  record  of  the  regiment  even 
when  its  losses  came  desperately  home  to  them  in  per 
sonal  bereavements.  But  no  complete  lists  of  killed 
and  wounded  came,  they  never  came  from  that  army. 

No  private  communications  from  anyone  in  the 
regiment  reached  the  city  for  some  time,  and  it  was 
not  until  ten  days  afterward  that  personal  details  be 
gan  to  appear  in  the  despatches.  Then  Mary  Annan 
learned  with  a  singular  mixture  of  feelings  in  which 
anguish  and  remorse  largely  predominated,  that 
General  Darrow  who  had  headed  the  last  charge  had 
been  shot  and  was  among  the  missing. 

I  say  a  singular  mixture,  for  if  ever  woman  sincerely 
mourned  for  a  man  and  would  have  called  him  back 
at  any  sacrifice,  she  was  that  one;  if  ever  grief  and 
regret  entered  a  woman's  soul  because  of  death,  it  had 
entered  Mary  Annan's  because  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  engaged  herself,  from  whom  she  had  begged  her 
freedom,  had  been  wiped  out  on  that  terrible  field; 
and  yet  in  spite  of  herself — and  she  loathed  herself  for 

239 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

the  thought,  she  would  have  died  rather  than  have  ad 
mitted  it  openly — there  was  a  leap  of  strange  joy  in  her 
heart  at  the  same  time. 

Not  joy  that  he  was  killed,  oh,  no,  but  joy  that, 
he  being  killed,  she  was  free.  There  was  the  selfish 
ness  as  well  as  the  magnificence  of  a  great  passion! 
He  was  gone,  and  her  heart  quivered  with  anguish  and 
despair  and  torture,  at  the  thought  of  it.  Yet  she 
could  not  still  that  voice  that  whispered  to  her  soul, 
free,  free!  The  word,  if  she  had  known  it,  which 
Darrow  had  spoken,  free,  free!  She  gloried  in  his 
achievement,  in  his  character;  she  mourned  for  him, 
she  would  have  given  all  to  call  him  back,  but  there 
was  this  mighty  fact  in  her  conscience,  his  going  had 
made  her  free !  The  last  check  that  had  estopped  her 
passion  for  Peyton  was  gone,  the  last  barrier  that  inter 
vened  between  them  had  been  removed.  She  could 
love  him — ah,  she  had  always  done  that — but  she  could 
love  him  now  without  accusation,  without  restraint. 
And  she  could  love  him  with  hope !  Her  love  began 
to  take  thought  for  itself  in  the  freedom  of  her  release. 
She  began  to  see  that  possibly  in  some  way  he  might 
be  given  back  to  her  again. 

Yet  her  soul  revolted  from  this  situation.  Her 
mind  raged  against  it.  She  vowed  over  and  over  again 
in  the  turmoil  of  her  thoughts  that  she  would  give 
up  everything,  even  her  love  for  Peyton,  her  hope  of 
happiness,  to  call  back  the  dead  soldier;  which  was  not 
true — or  was  it  after  all?  She  tried  to  persuade  her 
self  that  she  had  repented  that  she  had  asked  her 
freedom,  and  that  was  true — but  only  because  being 

240 


THE    RELIEF    THAT    SHAMED 

killed  there  had  been  no  need  after  all.  She  sorrowed 
that  Darrow  had  gone  to  his  death  with  her  denial  of 
her  love  ringing  in  his  ear.  Almost  she  loved  him,  too, 
now  that  he  was  gone  beyond  recall,  and  could  not 
claim  her.  And  she  was  sincere  in  all  this.  There 
was  a  duality  in  her  feelings,  strange,  confused,  inex 
plicable.  She  meant  it  when  she  thought  these  things, 
yet  deep  down  in  her  secret  heart  was  that  overwhelm 
ing  consciousness  of  freedom;  and  that  sense  she  had 
to  take  cognizance  of,  she  had  to  recognize  it,  look 
it  in  the  face. 

She  visited  upon  herself  for  this  situation  all  the 
contempt  that  her  pride  of  race  and  cause  rendered  in 
evitable;  and  the  poignant  censure  that  her  honor  de 
manded,  but  it  was  no  use,  and  finally  she  knew  it  was 
no  use.  She  would  rather  have  perished  in  torture  a 
thousand  times  than  allow  anyone  to  know  of  this,  yet 
she  had  to  acknowledge  it  herself,  the  fact  rose  be 
fore  her.  When  she  wept  bitter  tears — and  if  she 
really  loved  him  that  solace  for  woman  would  have 
been  denied  her — it  was  partly  for  the  soldier  who  had 
gone,  partly  for  the  loss  of  her  self-respect  involved  in 
this  revelation  of  her  feelings,  partly  because  of  the 
hopeless  love  she  cherished  for  Peyton,  her  enemy, 
and  her  conqueror,  and  partly  because  of  joy  that,  no 
matter  how  it  was  brought  about,  she  was  free. 

She  would  have  arranged  matters  differently,  if  her 
will  had  not  been  bound  by  her  feelings.  It  was  not 
in  accord  with  her  code,  these  conclusions  to  which  she 
finally  came,  but  she  was  to  learn — nay,  she  had 
learned  indeed — that  love  was  stronger  than  death,  or 

241 


THE   SOUTHERNERS 

life,  or  gratitude,  or  country;  that  it  could  bow  to  noth 
ing  but  duty,  and  honor.  And  she  could  not  be  sure 
that  it  would  bow  to  duty  in  her  case,  if  the  supreme 
test  came.  At  least  she  was  sure  of  one  desire  or 
rather  determination.  Though  her  heart  might  break 
she  resolved  to  give  no  sign  of  her  feeling  for  Peyton 
to  anyone. 

She  was  wearing  mourning  already  for  her  father 
and  there  was  no  other  outward  way  in  which  she 
could  further  testify  to  her  grief  at  the  loss  of  her 
soldier  lover.  The  betrothal  of  course  had  been  made 
public,  and  the  hardest  part  of  the  situation  she  found 
in  the  visits  of  condolence  which  were  made  to  her  by 
her  old  friends.  She  could  not  be  sure  how  far  she 
assented  to  these  expressions  of  sympathy.  She  hated 
herself  furiously  for  not  feeling  as  she  ought.  There 
was  no  doubt  as  to  her  grief,  but  it  was  largely  selfish, 
sorrow  for  her  own  thoughts.  Outwardly,  however, 
it  served  one  purpose  in  that  she  presented  such  evi 
dences  of  misery  that  when  her  friends  noticed  it  with 
loving  sympathy,  she  felt  that  she  was  a  base  hypo 
crite  for  not  telling  the  truth.  Yet  in  all  this  her  grief 
for  Darrow  was  really  deep  and  sincere  too. 

She  had  told  no  one  about  the  broken  engagement, 
and  she  was  fearful,  now  that  he  had  been  killed,  lest 
anyone  should  find  it  out.  She  prayed  that  Pleasants 
might  not  have  been  able  to  deliver  her  letter.  She 
longed  earnestly  with  a  feverish  activity  of  mind  that 
she  might  see  him.  If  heaven  were  kind  to  her  it 
might  be  that  the  letter  had  arrived  too  late  and  Dar 
row  had  gone  to  his  death  secure  in  her  love.  He 

242 


THE    RELIEF   THAT    SHAMED 

would  know  now  that  it  had  been  denied  him,  but 
perhaps  he  would  not  care  now. 

Stop!  Was  he  really  dead?  Had  he  been  killed? 
It  was  reported  that  he  had  been  shot  in  front  of  the 
Federal  line,  and  was  missing,  but  that  was  all.  There 
was  no  report  of  his  body  being  found  among  the 
killed.  When  this  idea  came  to  her  she  was  filled  with 
a  new  set  of  distracting  emotions.  If  he  had  not  re 
ceived  her  letter  and  he  had  not  died,  what  then?  This 
public  demonstration  of  sorrow  and  grief  which  others 
thought  was  for  him,  an  opinion  in  which  she  was 
quietly  acquiescing — what  would  be  the  result  of  it,  if 
after  all,  he  had  survived  his  wound?  Could  she  ever 
give  him  the  letter  or  tell  him  the  truth,  if  he  did  come 
back  ignorant  of  it?  Could  she  keep  to  her  engage 
ment  then?  Could  she  break  it?  Could  she  marry 
him?  What  could  she  do?  Was  she  indeed  free  or 
bound? 

And  there  was  Peyton  tossing  about  on  the  sunlit 
sea  at  the  mouth  of  the  bay,  so  near  her,  yet  so  parted 
from  her.  She  could  feel  his  presence.  She  had 
doubted,  but  she  felt  now  in  her  secret  heart  that  he 
loved  her.  Such  feeling  as  hers  could  not  be  without 
response.  She  would  compel  him  to  love  her  wher 
ever  he  might  be,  whatever  he  might  do,  however 
they  were  separated — if  she  were  only  free. 

She  pictured  Peyton  on  the  deck  of  the  ship  staring 
over  the  waters  to  where  she  sat  for  long  hours  alone, 
in  that  cheerful  Southern  room,  leaning  her  face  upon 
her  hands  in  the  old  way.  Alone  with  him,  alone  with 
love.  She  was  completely  unsettled,  swept  away  from 

243 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

her  moorings  by  the  intensity  of  her  feelings.  Her 
standards  were  broken.  Her  ideas  of  love,  honor, 
duty,  confused.  There  was  but  one  thing  of  which  she 
was  sublimely  certain,  and  that  was  that  she  loved  Pey 
ton,  she  loved  him,  she  loved  him  with  deepening  feel 
ing  in  every  passing  moment ! 

Yes,  Darrow  rose  before  her  vision  in  all  his  splen 
did  manly  beauty.  She  saw  him  as  she  had  often 
seen  him,  she  pictured  him  bursting  through  the 
smoke  and  flame  of  battle,  his  mighty  arm  lifted  up 
carrying  the  starry  Southern  cross  she  loved  so  well. 
She  saw  the  red  blood  welling  over  his  worn,  tattered, 
gray  uniform  when  he  fell.  The  world,  her  world, 
rang  with  plaudits  for  him.  If  he  had  died  he  had 
died  as  the  heroes  die,  fronting  the  foe.  If  he  had  been 
laid  low  he  had  been  struck  down  as  the  soldier  should 
be  in  the  thick  of  the  conflict.  If  his  spirit  had  gone  it 
had  left  him  at  the  supreme  moment  of  life,  at  the 
height  of  the  charge. 

Why  could  she  not  love  him?  What  was  she  that 
she  could  not  lift  up  her  heart  in  thanksgiving  that 
God  had  given  her  the  love  of  such  a  man,  that  she 
had  been  in  fact  the  inspiration  of  this  magnificent 
heroism  and  courage  and  devotion?  Why,  now  that 
he  was  gone,  could  she  not  forever  wear  the  garments 
of  mourning  instead  of  shrouding  herself  in  the  skirts 
of  shame  because  she  was  free?  Why  was  it  that  in 
every  splendid  picture  the  dark  face  of  Peyton,  grim, 
stern,  forbidding,  the  face  of  an  enemy,  rose  and  shat 
tered  her  dreams?  By  and  by  she  could  see  nothing 
but  Peyton,  Peyton,  Peyton,  everywhere.  She  was 

244 


THE    RELIEF    THAT    SHAMED 

no  longer  mistress  of  her  heart,  her  will,  anything. 
That  belonged  to  the  man  on  the  ship.  There  was 
rest  and  peace  in  the  abandonment.  There  was  dignity 
in  the  greatness  of  her  passion  which  half  took  away 
the  shame. 

And  poor  Pink  Peyton,  her  grief  was  genuine  and 
unalloyed.  The  first  tidings  had  said  that  Pleasants 
had  died  by  Barrow's  side.  The  shock  had  crushed 
the  girl,  then  she  had  been  lifted  up  to  the  seventh 
heaven  by  a  contradictory  report,  and  beaten  down 
again  by  the  rumor  of  a  desperate  wound  he  had  re 
ceived  in  carrying  back  the  colors  to  the  regiment. 
These  alternations  were  more  terrible  than  mere  sus 
pense — there  was  always  hope  to  leaven  that. 

And  then  every  heart  was  fired  with  excitement 
when  it  was  clicked  over  the  wires  that  the  regiment — 
all  that  was  left  of  it,  having  been  literally  cut  to  pieces 
— its  time  of  service  having  expired,  was  coming 
home.  Pleasants  was  to  be  brought  back  with  the  rest. 


CHAPTER    XXXI 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  REGIMENT 


I 


T  was  a  pleasant  morning  in  October 
when  the  steamer  from  Montgomery 
drew  up  at  the  wharf  with  the  regi 
ment  on  board.  There  was  a  great 
concourse  of  people  on  the  dock  and 
in  the  nearby  streets.  Two  or  three 
companies  of  young  boys  and  old  men, 
Home  Guards,  in  cheap,  ill-fitting  uni 
forms,  were  there  to  welcome  them, 
and  there  was  a  regiment  from  Gen 
eral  Maury's  command  at  the  Spanish 
Fort  at  Blakely,  to  do  them  honor. 
The  rest  of  the  crowd  was  made  up 
of  hoary  grandfathers,  little  children, 
and  women.  The  troops  on  the  shore 
presented  arms  as  the  debarkation  of  the  regiment 
began. 

A  regiment!  Was  that  handful  a  regiment?  A 
faint  attempt  to  raise  a  cheer  ended  in  a  groan.  First 
came  the  lieutenant  in  command,  a  mere  boy,  who  had 
been  a  private  when  he  went  forth.  There  were  tears 
in  his  eyes,  he  stepped  unsteadily,  his  sword  trembled 
in  his  hands,  his  voice  broke  as  he  gave  the  words  of 
command.  Close  after  him  came  a  little  squad  of  men 
carrying  the  flag,  a  mere  tattered,  bloodstained  rag, 

246 


.. 


THE    RETURN    OF    THE    REGIMENT 

now,  drooping  down  the  staff  in  the  still  air.  Then 
on  a  litter,  carried  by  some  of  the  soldiers,  came  the 
prostrate  figure  of  young  Pleasants,  the  heroic  lieuten 
ant-colonel.  His  foot  was  bandaged,  and  the  wound 
and  exposure  had  brought  on  a  relapse  of  his  fever. 
He  had  strength  enough  left  to  prop  himself  upon 
his  arm  and  turn  his  gaze  listlessly  toward  the  crowd. 

Then  came  the  wounded  who  were  able  to  march — 
men  with  their  heads  tied  up,  men  with  their  arms  in 
improvised  slings,  men  leaning  on  human  crutches, 
men  with  bandages  over  their  eyes,  led  by  others;  and 
then  the  well  men — only  by  contrast  could  these  hag 
gard,  broken  fellows  be  called  well — perhaps  one  hun 
dred  of  them.  The  whole  body  did  not  number  one 
hundred  and  fifty.  Their  patched,  tattered  uniforms 
were  covered  with  dust,  they  were  worn  and  faded  be 
yond  recognition.  The  faces  of  the  men  were  gaunt 
and  weather-beaten,  but  the  gun-barrels  were  bright, 
the  bayonets  still  sparkled  in  the  sun.  They  had  gone 
forth  not  quite  three  years  before  some  eleven  hundred 
strong,  they  came  back  one  hundred  and  fifty  weak. 

A  drum  and  fife  belonging  to  them  struck  up  as  the 
little  company,  in  the  midst  of  ghastly  silence,  crossed 
the  gang  plank.  The  remains  of  the  field  music  made 
a  brave  effort  to  cheer  the  men,  and  the  tune  that  rang 
over  the  silent  crowd  was  the  old  sweet  one,  "Listen 
to  the  Mocking-Bird."  The  two  men  played  a  few 
bars  of  it,  but  it  was  too  much  for  them.  The  music 
stopped  suddenly. 

The  heads  of  the  men  of  the  regiment  dropped  on 
their  breasts  as  the  memories  of  their  first  passage 

247 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

down  Government  Street,  the  day  they  went  away,  so 
young,  so  hopeful,  and  so  strong,  came  upon  them, 
staggering  over  the  same  highway  on  that  day.  Tears 
streamed  from  their  eyes.  They  were  home,  all  that 
was  left  of  them.  It  was  good  to  be  home  again.  A 
groan  burst  from  the  crowd.  The  regiment  pro 
ceeded  slowly  a  little  way  up  the  street,  the  people 
swarming  about  it. 

There,  on  the  porch  at  Annandale,  as  they  had  seen 
her  as  they  marched  away,  stood  Mary  Annan.  No, 
not  the  same,  for  then  she  was  gay  and  joyous,  now 
she  was  bowed  with  grief  and  arrayed  in  the  garments 
of  mourning.  With  her  were  Madam  Peyton  and  her 
daughter  and  old  Mrs.  Pleasants.  Hamilton's  father 
had  gone  to  the  front.  The  boy  was  to  be  taken  there, 
and  his  mother  had  come  to  meet  him.  They,  too, 
were  in  the  same  sombre  garb,  and  they  made  a  strik 
ing  group,  a  black  blot  against  the  white  walls  of  the 
old  house.  The  women  in  the  street  were  pressing 
hard  upon  the  soldiers  now.  Cries  and  appeals  rang 
along  the  street. 

"Jack!     Jack!     Is  it  you?" 
"Oh,  thank  God,  you've  come  back !" 
"Has  anyone  seen  my  son?" 
"Oh,  where  is  my  husband?" 
"Tell  me,  where  did  you  leave  my  Will?" 
And  so  on  in  a  confused  medley  of  heartbreaking 
appeals. 

The  ranks  were  invaded  now.  They  were  broken. 
The  march  was  stopped.  The  regiment  was  home 
and  in  the  arms  of  the  women. 

248 


THE    RETURN    OF    THE    REGIMENT 

They  carried  Pleasants  into  the  hall  at  Annandale. 
And  lying  there  on  the  litter  he  told  how  Bob  Dar- 
row  had  led  the  charge.  He  was  ill,  faint,  but  he 
must  tell  his  story.  Dr.  Venosste,  who  had  come  to 
do  what  he  could  for  him,  bade  him  speak  on  at  last. 

"I  was  right  by  his  side  when  he  fell,"  he  said.  "We 
led  the  last  charge,  you  know,  Miss  Mary." 

He  addressed  the  young  woman,  recognizing  her 
right  above  the  others  to  hear  the  story. 

"And  the  next  day  I  sent  a  party  to  look  for  him, 
as  the  field  was  ours." 

"Did  they  find  him?"  asked  the  girl,  "or  his— 
body?" 

"No,  Miss  Mary.  There  had  been  a  fire  near  where 
he  fell  that  had  swept  away  a  good  part  of  the  forest 
on  the  hill.  They " 

He  stopped,  not  liking  to  continue  the  ghastly  re 
cital. 

"Did  they  find  anything?" 

"There  were  many  other  bodies  there.  They  found 
— evidences  of  those.  His  might  have  been  among 
them." 

"But  his  watch — that  would  not  burn — or " 

"They  found  nothing,  nothing  that  gave  any 
clew."  " 

"Was  he  dead  when  you  left  him?" 

"I  don't  know,  I  think  not;  but  hard  hit,  yes." 

"How  dared  you  leave  him?"  she  cried,  suddenly. 

"I  was  driven  off,  Miss  Mary.  God  knows  I'd 
cheerfully  have  died  for  him,  or  with  him." 

"And  how  dare  you  speak  so  to  him,  Mary  Annan, 
249 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

you  cruel,  selfish  woman !"  cried  Pink,  aflame.  "Ham 
ilton,  what  did  you  go  back  for?" 

"Pink,  dear,"  said  the  young  man,  flushing  faintly, 
"I  seized  the  flag  from  Darrow's  failing  hand.  He 
gave  it  to  me;  he  said,  'Save  the  flag!'  A  little  knot 
of  our  men  rallied  around  me  and  stood  there  on  that 
slope  until  they  were  shot  down.  I  was  alone.  We 
were  beaten  back.  I  thought  it  better  to  save  the 
flag,  so  I  turned  and  walked  down  the  hill.  A  bullet 
struck  me " 

"What  then?"  cried  his  mother,  breathlessly. 

"Then  I  crawled  with  the  flag  until  I  brought  it 
back." 

"They  didn't  fire  upon  you?" 

"Not  when  they  saw  me  crawling  away?" 

"Forgive  me,"  cried  Mary  Annan,  kneeling  down 
by  him  and  pressing  a  kiss  on  his  hand.  "You  are  a 
hero  like  all  the  men  of  the  South,  like  General  Dar- 
row  was.  Do  you  think  he  may  have  escaped?" 

"It  is  hardly  within  the  bounds  of  possibility,  Miss 
Mary.  Still,  I  can't  say.  You  ought  to  be  proud  of 
him.  He  loved  you  so." 

"Did  you  give  him  my  letter?"  whispered  the  girl, 
as  she  knelt  beside  him. 

"Yes,"  whispered  the  young  officer,  softly. 

Something  in  the  situation  caused  the  others  to 
draw  back  a  little  as  she  questioned  him. 

"And  did  he — was  he — what  did  he  say — or  do?" 

No  one  heard  the  answer.  Pleasants  would  have 
spared  her  if  he  could,  but  there  was  something  in 
her  glance  that  compelled  the  truth. 

250 


THE    RETURN    OF    THE    REGIMENT 

"It  broke  his  heart,"  he  said,  feeling  for  her  sorrow. 
"It  struck  him  down  as  surely  as  the  Yankee  bullet 
on  that  Sunday  evening." 

Mary  Annan  slipped 'down  and  fell  upon  her  face, 
hearing  and  seeing  nothing  more. 


BOOK   IV 
THE    THUNDERBOLT   STROKE 


CHAPTER    XXXII 


A  GREAT  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SEA 


I 


T  was  the  afternoon  of  the  4th  of 
August,  1864.  The  place  was  the 
after-cabin  of  the  U.  S.  steam  sloop- 
of-war  Hartford,  carrying  the  flag  of 
Admiral  David  Glasgow  Farragut, 
Captain  Percival  Drayton  command 
ing.  An  elderly  officer  sat,  with  a  sin 
gle  companion,  at  a  table  scanning  a 
chart  spread  out  before  him.  He  wore 
the  complete  uniform  of  his  rank,  a 
rear  admiral,  which  was  at  that  time 
the  highest  in  the  service.  He  was  a 
rather  small  man,  not  stout,  who  still 
preserved  his  waist  and  figure  although 
he  had  already  entered  upon  his  sixty- 
third  year.  His  broad  shoulders  and  his  well-knit 
frame  gave  promise  of  unusual  vigor  for  one  of  his 
advanced  age.  In  his  appearance  were  evidences  of 
mental  capacity  and  determination  in  accord  with  his 
physical  advantages. 

As  he  sat  there  he  stared  intently  at  the  chart  through 
his  eye-glasses;  when  he  removed  them,  a  slight  con 
traction  of  his  brows  was  noticeable,  which  turned  the 
upper  curves  of  the  eyelids  into  straight  lines,  giving 

255 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

a  singular  eagle-like  directness  to  his  glance — if  an 
eagle's  eye  could  be  kindly  and  rilled  with  humor 
which  is  the  completing  quality  of  greatness.  His 
face,  which  was  rather  long,  was  smooth-shaven.  His 
forehead  was  broad  and  high.  His  nose  was  aquiline, 
the  upper  lip  long;  the  curves  of  his  mouth  bespoke 
an  indomitable  resolution  which  the  firm  bold  chin  and 
resolute  jaw  confirmed.  He  was  bald  on  the  top  of 
his  head,  but  his  black  hair,  already  turning  white 
about  the  temples,  which  was  allowed  to  grow  long  on 
the  left  side,  was  carefully  brushed  over  the  denuded 
spot;  in  seaman's  parlance,  "the  afterguard  was  made 
to  do  fok's'l  duty." 

His  natural  very  dark  complexion  was  intensified 
by  an  exposure  of  many  years  to  wind  and  weather, 
largely  in  tropic  seas.  His  cap  lay  on  the  table  by 
him  and  a  whitish  line  across  his  forehead,  common  to 
old  sailors,  showed  where  it  had  protected  his  brow 
from  sun  and  storm.  In  spite  of  his  dark  skin  his 
color  came  and  went  like  a  boy's,  especially  when  he 
laughed  or  grew  excited.  His  eye  indeed  was  some 
what  dim  from  hard  usage  on  salt  water,  but  his  natural 
force  otherwise  was  not  yet  visibly  abated.  His  man 
ners  were  simple,  genial,  and  unaffected,  his  address 
easy  and  pleasant.  When  his  rather  plain  face  lighted 
with  a  smile,  it  became  charming. 

Fifty  years  of  naval  service  had  given  the  admiral 
the  authoritative  appearance  of  long  command.  There 
was  about  him  that  indefinable  stamp  of  power  and  its 
habitual  use,  or  enjoyment,  which  held  the  most  pre 
sumptuous  at  a  proper  distance;  at  the  same  time  he 

256 


A   GREAT   CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SEA 

was  easily  approachable,  too.  In  his  bearing  there 
was  dignity  without  stiffness.  When  he  knitted  his 
brows,  as  he  frequently  did  on  account  of  a  slightly 
impaired  vision,  and  his  mind  turned  to  action,  his 
hazel  eyes  fairly  flashed  with  fire  and  spirit.  In  re 
pose  there  was  a  twinkle  of  humor,  and  good-humor, 
in  them,  which  yet  neither  invited  presumption  nor 
allowed  familiarity.  ,'  .;:  1 

There  was  in  his  aspect  some  of  that  conceit  neces 
sary  to  greatness  in  action;  a  conceit  which  rose  from 
careful  preparation,  from  thorough  self-knowledge, 
from  the  remembrance  of  past  exploits  and  the  cer 
tainty  of  future  successes.  It  was  a  conceit  obligated  by 
achievement  and,  if  apology  be  needed,  condoned  by 
it.  It  was  an  assurance  that  never  obtruded  itself  jar 
ringly,  as  do  the  vices  of  lesser  men,  but  one  which 
actually  inspired  everyone  with  whom  the  admiral 
came  in  contact,  with  confidence  and  courage.  This 
serene  self-confidence  was  the  inevitable  result  of  ade 
quate  recognition  of  an  inherent  power  and  ability  to 
do  things,  great  things,  on  a  grand  scale,  based  upon 
happy  issues  of  the  past;  and  it  was  a  quality  without 
which,  no  matter  what  other  capacities  and  abilities 
may  have  been  enjoyed  and  employed  in  individual 
instances,  there  never  has  existed  the  truly  great  com 
mander. 

The  predominant  impression  that  an  observer  ac 
customed  to  reading  men  would  have  gathered  from 
his  appearance,  was  one  of  absolute  fearlessness.  This 
native  intrepidity,  coupled  with  a  habit  of  prompt  de 
cision,  would  enable  him  to  dominate  the  unforeseen 

257 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

emergency,  whatever  it  might  be.  This  cheerful 
courage  was  of  the  kind  that  decides  instantly  in  the 
exigent  moment;  that  takes  the  only  proper  course  in 
the  crisis  as  it  presents  itself.  But  his  decision  would 
be  no  more  the  creation  of  an  impulse  than  is  the 
speech  of  the  lawyer  or  the  sermon  of  the  clergyman 
after  a  lifetime  of  practice  or  exhortation,  an  im 
promptu.  It  would  be  the  wisdom  of  years  at  the 
touch.  It  would  be  character  in  action. 

Wise  planning  and  careful  preparation  born  of  long 
practice  and  experience  are  necessarily  precedent  con 
ditions  of  success.  But  after  all  it  is  the  man  who 
employs  the  resultant  of  these  things  in  that  crucial 
instant  when  the  unforeseen  happening  shatters  all 
his  plans  and  puts  all  his  preconceived  ideas  to  flight, 
who  grapples  victory  and  holds  it  for  his  own.  We 
prepare  consciously,  or  unconsciously,  through  long 
lifetimes  for  that  one  flood-tide  moment,  and  great 
ness  may  be  measured  by  the  rare  ability  to  grasp  a 
sole  opportunity.  Fame  touches  us  but  for  a  sec 
ond,  and  the  man  who  is  not  ready  on  that  instant  to 
seize  and  hold  her  loses  all.  To  be  ready  is  half  of 
success. 

This  man  would  never  lose  anything  in  that  way. 
It  is  a  habit  of  seamen  to  decide  instinctively  and 
instantly  in  moments  of  danger;  they  have  no  time  to 
think  it  over;  the  watchword  of  the  old  sailor  of  the 
wooden  sailing  ship  was  Now !  The  ability  to  know 
always  what  to  do  with  the  helm,  for  instance,  and  the 
right  use  of  the  motive  and  directive  power  that  lay 
in  canvas  and  cordage,  without  a  second  of  hesitation 

258 


A   GREAT   CAPTAIN  OF  THE  SEA 

— for  on  the  sea  the  demands  are  fearfully  sudden — 
is  what  distinguishes  the  true  seaman  from  the  theo 
retical  sailor.  His  ship  is  a  part  of  the  tried  mariner, 
she  moves  at  a  volition  as  unconsciously  exercised  as 
when  he  lifts  his  arm  or  turns  his  head.  Your  theo 
retical  sailor  is  a  different  man.  The  Englishman  al 
ways  used  to  beat  the  Frenchman;  that  was  the  rea 
son,  the  one  was  a  sailor  by  instinct,  the  other  by  train 
ing.  The  Americans  usually  beat  the  English  be 
cause  they  were  sailors  in  both  kinds!  Instinct  and 
training,  that  is  the  most  powerful  combination  in  the 
world ! 

This  man  had  both  in  full. 

You  could  see  that  he  was  a  sailor  beyond  perad- 
venture,  a  thousand  things  indicated  it  to  an  observing 
or  experienced  eye.  He  could  no  more  disguise  it 
than  he  could  disguise  his  character.  Yet  there  were 
none  of  the  popularly  accepted  signs  of  his  profession 
about  him;  nothing  of  the  "roll-like-a-seventy-four-in- 
a-gale-of-wind"  in  his  manner,  nothing  of  the  bluff, 
burly,  bull-like,  blow-hardness  of  the  so-called  "Ben- 
bow  School"  of  sailors  in  his  appearance.  Nor  was 
he  of  the  red-faced,  irascible  type,  which  so  many  an 
cient  seamen  affect — especially  in  novels.  He  was 
not  full  of  strange  oaths  and  uncouth  phrases  more 
or  less  technical.  There  were  about  him  none  of  the 
common  affectations  of  the  sea — indeed  no  affectations 
of  any  sort !  Here  was  a  cultivated  gentleman  of  the 
very  highest  type,  a  most  accomplished  officer,  a  lion 
in  bravery,  almost  a  woman  in  his  gentleness.  His 
seamanly  habit  spoke  in  his  method,  in  his  cheery 

259 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

ways,  in  his  qualities,  as  much  as  it  did  in  his  sun 
burned  cheeks. 

And  to  the  most  casual  observer  it  was  evident  that 
here  was  a  great  man,  one  of  the  few  men  to  whom 
that  word  which  is  usually  so  carelessly  employed, 
could  be  rightly  applied.  A  leader,  he;  one  whose  ac 
tions  men  instinctively  would  be  glad  to  emulate  and 
upon  whom  they  felt  they  could  depend.  Yet  his 
greatness  was  rather  personal  than  communicative, 
or  selective,  or  distributive.  He  would  do  the  thing 
himself  and  succeed  in  getting  others  to  do  it  because 
they  were  inspired  by  his  action  to  do  as  he  did.  He 
was  not  so  much  one  who  had  devised  a  plan,  chosen 
his  instrument,  pointed  out  a  way,  and  achieved  suc 
cess  through  others.  He  did  things  himself,  and  the 
others  followed  him  gladly.  Like  Grant  he  trusted 
men  and  was  inclined  to  take  them  at  their  face  value 
till  failure  or  weakness  enlightened  him. 

He  was  not  of  course  deficient  in  the  large  ability, 
the  foresight  to  see  the  vital  point  or  to  lay  out  the 
campaign  on  a  large  scale,  far  from  it;  he  planned 
greatly  and  in  his  brilliant  arrangements  are  found 
many  reasons  for  his  success.  But  in  every  one  of  his 
great  battles  he  gained  his  greatest  glory  by  his  own 
personal  daring,  courage,  and  skill,  in  choosing  the 
right,  the  noble,  course  in  the  very  nick  of  time,  when 
a  weaker  man  would  have  faltered  and  faltering,  failed. 
He  was  a  subtle  tactician,  and  the  master  always  of 
the  strategic  moment. 

One  other  phase  of  his  character  may  be  mentioned. 
He  was  a  good  man,  just  and  upright  in  his  dealings, 

260 


A   GREAT   CAPTAIN  OF   THE  SEA 

merciful  in  his  judgments,  pleasant  and  agreeable  in 
his  social  relations,  a  rare  husband  and  father.  And 
a  sincere,  simple-minded  Christian  of  high  and  humble 
type.  Indeed  his  actions  resulted  from  a  singular  mix 
ture  of  confidence  in  his  own  judgment,  the  courage 
that  pervaded  his  soul,  and  an  absolute  trust  and  de 
pendence  upon  that  Higher  Power  that  rules  the 
destinies  of  men.  And  seeing  all  these  things  his 
officers  and  men  loved  him  and  followed  gladly  where 
he  would  lead. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 


PEYTON  POINTS  OUT  THE  WAY 

ELL,  Drayton,"  said  the  admiral,  look 
ing  up  from  the  chart  at  the  officer 
sitting  near  him  in  the  cabin,  "I  think 
we  have  done  everything  we  can  do  in 
the  way  of  preparation,  and  nothing 
now  remains  but  to  put  the  affair  to 
the  test." 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  Drayton,  a 
tall,  thin,  dark,  swarthy,  full-bearded 
sailor,  the  able  commander  of  the 
Hartford  and  Farragut's  fleet-captain, 
as  brave  and  capable  an  officer  as  ever 
sailed  or  fought  a  ship.  "I  can  think 
of  nothing  to  add  to  the  instructions 
you  have  prepared." 
"The  ships  are  to  go  in  in  pairs,  lashed  together," 
continued  the  admiral,  slowly,  rehearsing  his  orders  to 
see  if  anything  further  occurred  to  him,  "the  weaker 
vessels  on  the  port  hand.  If  one  ship  is  disabled  by  the 
enemy's  fire  the  other  will  be  able  to  carry  her  past  the 
forts,  I  trust.  Then  the  tide  will  be  at  flood  in  the 
morning,  and  we  could  almost  drift  in  were  the  process 
not  a  little  too  slow.  And  I  count  upon  the  tide  turn 
ing  the  percussion  caps  of  the  torpedoes  away  from 
the  ships.  The  four  monitors  will  go  in  to  starboard 
and  ahead  of  the  fleet  and  engage  the  forts  at  close 

262 


PEYTON    POINTS    OUT    THE    WAY 

range.  The  two  heavier  single  turret  ones  will  then 
proceed  to  engage  the  Tennessee,  while  the  double  tur 
ret  Mississippi  River  monitors  will  lie  off  the  fort  and 
cover  our  passage.  We  have  had  word  that  the  Pen- 
sacola  and  the  Tecumseh  will  be  here  this  afternoon 
— thank  God!  I  was  mortified  to  death  to  find  the 
army  ready  to  begin  this  morning,  and  we  not  able  to 
carry  out  our  part  of  the  program  as  agreed." 

"Waiting  will  do  the  soldiers  no  harm,  sir,"  said 
Drayton,  "and  I  hardly  think  it  would  be  prudent  to 
venture  until  all  the  fleet  be  here.  The  odds  are  heavy 
against  us  as  it  is." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  suppose  you  are  right.  I  don't  fancy 
these  iron  pots  myself,  Drayton,  but  in  this  instance 
we  must  have  them,"  replied  Farragut,  thoughtfully, 
with  a  sailor's  natural  reluctance  to  yield  to  monitor 
or  iron-clad  any  superiority  to  the  beautiful  wooden 
ships  on  which  he  had  served,  been  trained,  and  one 
of  which  now  bore  his  flag. 

The  time  was  the  transition  period  between  wood 
and  sails,  steam  and  iron ;  and  while  sails  were  doomed 
it  was  not  yet  quite  certain  that  the  oak  timber  would 
give  way  to  the  iron  beam,  or  the  broadside  frigate  to 
the  turret  raft. 

"Yes,  Admiral,"  assented  the  captain,  "you  see  there 
is  the  ram,  you  know,  and  the  gunboats.  After  we 
get  past  the  forts  we  will  have  to  deal  with  those." 

"Of  course." 

"To  my  mind  they  are  the  most  dangerous  ob 
stacles  to  our  attempt.  They'll  rake  the  life  out  of  us 
in  that  narrow  channel." 

263 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Yes,  they  will  if  they  are  well  handled,  as  they  are 
sure  to  be.  Well,  we'll  have  to  grin  and  bear  it  as 
best  we  can.  Once  get  our  broadsides  to  bear  on  the 
gunboats  we'll  make  short  work  of  them." 

"And  the  Tennessee,  sir?" 

"We  can't  make  any  different  plans  as  to  her.  Old 
Buck  is  a  fighter,  you  know.  He  isn't  going  to  wait 
for  our  passage;  he's  going  to  be  in  the  thing  from 
the  beginning,  if  I  know  him." 

"Quite  so,  sir !  May  I  ask  what  you  propose  to  do 
with  him?" 

"Why,  fight  him,  of  course!"  exclaimed  the  ad 
miral.  "Mob  him !  Throw  every  ship  upon  him  that 
can  get  a  blow  in." 

"The  wooden  ships,  sir?" 

"Certainly;  ram  him  with  those  and  hammer  him  to 
pieces  with  the  heavy  guns  of  the  monitors  and  our 
own  broadsides." 

"It  will  be  wood  against  iron,  sir,"  remarked  the 
captain,  thoughtfully. 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  except  for  the  monitors." 

"The  day  of  the  wooden  ship  is  about  over.  I  sup 
pose  in  the  end  iron  will  win,"  observed  Drayton. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so,  but  not  in  my  day;  not  to-mor 
row,  anyway,"  replied  the  admiral,  confidently.  "I 
feel  perfectly  certain  we  can  attend  to  the  Tennessee 
all  right.  We'll  just  work  at  her  until  we  sink  her  by 
sheer  weight  of  numbers." 

"Provided  she  doesn't  sink  some  of  us  before 
that." 

"I've  counted  upon  that,  Drayton.  I  expect  to  lose 
264 


PEYTON    POINTS    OUT    THE    WAY 

some  of  my  ships,  probably  some  under  the  guns  of 
the  fort  and  possibly  some  from  the  Tennessee,  but 
we  shall  have  enough  left  to  complete  the  work,  never 
fear.  That's  a  risk  that  every  flag-officer  must  run. 
And  a  lost  ship  counts  for  little  beside  a  battle 
gained,"  said  the  admiral,  philosophically.  "Notwith 
standing,  I  fervently  pray  all  may  pass  safely." 

"And  as  to  the  fire  of  Fort  Gaines,  Admiral  ?" 

"Too  far  off  for  any  damage  to  us." 

"And  the  torpedoes?" 

"We'll  face  them,  too.  If  we  can  pass  through  the 
open  channel  near  the  fort  we  may  escape  from  them." 

"And  if  not?" 

"I  don't  care  that,"  snapping  his  fingers,  "for  them. 
By  the  way,  I  think  we'd  better  have  Peyton  in  here 
for  a  final  look  at  this  chart.  Will  you " 

"Certainly,  sir,"  said  Drayton,  anticipating  the  re 
quest,  and  stepping  to  the  door  of  the  cabin. 
"Orderly,"  he  called  out,  "pass  the  word  for  Lieuten 
ant  Peyton  to  report  to  the  admiral  in  his  cabin." 

In  a  few  moments  a  young  officer  descended  from 
the  deck,  opened  the  door  of  the  cabin,  stepped  within, 
and  saluted. 

"Good-afternoon,  Mr.  Peyton,"  said  the  admiral, 
genially,  "sit  down,  sir.  But,  first  will  you  tell  the 
orderly  to  send  Freeman  here?" 

"Ah,  Freeman,"  continued  the  old  sailor,  as  the 
pilot  of  the  fleet  came  into  the  cabin,  "come  around 
here,  both  of  you,  where  you  can  see  this  chart. 
These  are  the  jottings  you  made  on  the  old  govern 
ment  chart,  I  believe,  Freeman?" 

265 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Yes,  sir,"  answered  the  pilot,  respectfully. 

"You  think  they  are  right,  do  you?" 

"As  near  as  my  memory  serves,  sir.  It  has  been 
some  time  since  I  was  in  Mobile  Bay,  admiral." 

"It  won't  be  long  before  you  will  be  in  once  more, 
I  fancy,  Freeman,"  interrupted  the  admiral. 

"Yes,  sir,  I  hope  so,"  answered  the  pilot,  smiling 
broadly  and  pointing  to  the  chart  again.  "There  was 
the  channel,  gentlemen,  but  shoals  change  and  these 
waters  are  treacherous.  Still,  that's  the  best  informa 
tion  I  can  give  you  from  memory." 

"'No  one  can  do  better  than  his  best,"  said  the  ad 
miral.  "Now,  Mr.  Peyton,  I  wish  you  would  take  a 
look  at  these  shoal  lines  and  give  us  your  opinion  on 
them.  You  were  born  here,  I  recollect,  and  perhaps 
you  may  be  able  to  give  us  some  additional  informa 
tion  which  will  be  helpful.  I  don't  mind  telling  you, 
gentlemen,  that,  God  willing,  I  am  going  in  in  the 
morning." 

The  young  officer  could  not  repress  a  sudden  move 
ment  which  the  observant  admiral  instantly  detected. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "I  feel  for  you.  I  know  some 
thing  of  how  you  must  feel.  When  I  came  up  the 
Mississippi  to  New  Orleans  my  own  sister  and  many  of 
my  relatives  were  in  the  city.  I  dreaded  the  idea 
that  I  might  be  obliged  to  fire  upon  them  at  any  mo 
ment.  I  met  your  father  in  the  Mexican  War.  I 
know  he  will  give  us  a  hard  fight." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  proudly,  "he  is  as 
brave  as  a  lion." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,"  returned  the  admiral, 
266 


PEYTON    POINTS    OUT    THE    WAY 

kindly,  "and  it  is  hard  to  think  that  you  must  fire  upon 
his  fort,  but  it  is  a  thing  that  a  great  many  men  have 
to  do.  I,  myself,  am  a  Southern  man,  born  in  Ten 
nessee.  I  lived  in  Louisiana  when  I  entered  the  ser 
vice.  My  wife's  people  are  all  Virginians,  too.  If 
there  had  been  an  amicable  separation  between  the 
sections  I  might  have  gone  with  the  South,  but  when 
war  came  my  course  was  clear  to  me.  But  don't  you 
think  it  didn't  hurt  me  to  turn  my  guns  against 
my  own  people,  my  wife's  people!  Eh,  Captain 
Drayton?" 

"Indeed  it  does,  sir,"  feelingly  answered  Drayton, 
who  was  from  North  Carolina.  "I  can  well  remem 
ber  my  own  sensations  when  I  took  the  Pawnee  in  at 
Fort  Royal.  You  know  my  brother  commanded  one 
of  the  forts  there." 

"And  my  brother  is  on  the  Tennessee,  Admiral," 
said  Peyton. 

"Is  he,  indeed?"  said  the  veteran  sea-captain. 
"Well,  Admiral  Buchanan  will  give  him  plenty  to  do, 
if  I  know  him,  and  us  too,  and  we'll  try  to  see  that 
he  has  an  opportunity  to  do  all  he  wants.  I'm  just 
aching  to  meet  him  and  have  things  out.  Strange, 
Drayton,  that  the  four  men  in  this  cabin  should  all 
be  Southerners  in  arms  against  the  South." 

"Not  against  the  South  as  a  South,  Admiral,  if  you 
will  permit  me,"  replied  Drayton,  quickly,  his  face 
flushing — his  Southern  ties  were  much  more  intense 
than  the  admiral's.  "But  against  any  section  which 
seeks  to  disrupt  the  Union.  Believe  me,  there  is  a 
difference." 

267 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Yes,"  returned  the  admiral,  thoughtfully,  I  see 
that  there  is.  You  are  right." 

"It's  not  that  I  have  the  slightest  animosity  toward 
the  South,  sir;  on  the  contrary,  I  love  her.  She  is  in 
my  mind  like  a  child  who  tries  to  run  away  from  her 
home  and  get  lost,  and  we  have  to  bring  her  back 
even " 

"Even  if  we  batter  her  to  pieces  in  the  bringing," 
interrupted  the  old  officer,  smiling. 

"Well,  of  course,  these  things  will  happen.  I  have 
to  punish  my  own  children  sometimes,"  commented 
the  flag-captain. 

"Well,  gentlemen,  I  think  it  is  pretty  much  over 
now.  I  thought  it  was  practically  over  after  Vicks- 
burg  and  Gettysburg,  but  Chickamauga  gave  them  a 
lift.  But  now  I  am  sure  of  it." 

"The  South  has  only  been  beaten  by  her  own  sons, 
sir,"  cried  Peyton,  suddenly. 

"Well,  not  exactly,"  laughed  the  admiral.  "We 
four  happen  to  be  Southern  men,  but  Grant,  Sherman, 
and  Sheridan  and  some  of  the  rest  can't  lay  claim  to 
the  happy  title.  However,"  lifting  his  glasses,  "let's 
to  the  chart.  You  know  this  harbor?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  have  sailed  over  every  fathom  of  it,  I 
believe,"  answered  Peyton. 

"What  in?" 

"My  own  sloop,  sir." 

"And  not  alone,  I'll  be  bound,"  chuckled  the  ad 
miral,  amusedly,  as  he  scanned  the  chart. 

"No,  sir,"  said  Peyton,  paling  visibly  under  the 
brown  of  his  cheek. 

268 


PEYTON    POINTS    OUT    THE    WAY 

"With  many  a  young  girl  for  a  shipmate,  I'll  war 
rant,"  continued  the  older  man,  not  heeding  the 
other's  agitation  as  he  scrutinized  the  chart. 

"With  one,  sir.     My — an  old  friend,  sir." 

Peyton  bit  his  lip  to  keep  from  trembling  at  the 
recollection  of  the  happy  but  vanished  past. 

"Forgive  me,  lad,"  said  the  old  sailor,  looking 
quickly  up  at  him,  as  he  remarked  his  changed  voice, 
touched  by  the  reticence  with  which  Peyton  spoke  of 
that  one,  a  reticence  which  conveyed  a  great  deal  to 
the  quick  apprehension  of  the  admiral — "forgive 
me.  I  didn't  mean  to  call  up  recollections  of  that 
kind." 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive,  sir,"  answered  the 
young  officer,  quietly.  "I  put  all  that  out  of  my  mind 
when  I  refused  to  resign  and  came  North  to  follow  the 
flag." 

Ah,  yes,  Peyton  had  put  all  these  things  out  of  mind 
perhaps,  or  tried  to  do  it,  but  he  had  never  succeeded 
in  putting  them  and  Mary  Annan  out  of  his  heart ! 

He  spoke  bravely,  yet  in  spite  of  his  powerful  effort 
at  constraint  and  restraint,  it  was  impossible  com 
pletely  to  disguise  his  emotion.  The  admiral  looked 
thoughtfully  at  him.  Drayton,  divining  the  situation, 
turned  away  with  the  fine  instinct  of  the  true  gentle 
man,  and  looked  out  of  a  port.  The  pilot  stared  at 
the  chart.  Each  man  was  thinking  doubtless  of  the 
one  to  whom  his  own  heart  was  given,  and  the  South, 
the  beloved  South,  against  which  all  of  them  were  in 
arms.  As  the  admiral  gazed  at  Peyton  the  old  man's 
ready  sympathy  apparent  in  his  expressive  face,  almost 

269 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

unmanned  him.     He  mastered  his  feelings,  however, 
and  turned  to  the  chart. 

"The  chart  appears  to  be  all  right,  sir,  so  far  as  I 
can  make  it  out,"  he  said  at  last,  after  scrutinizing  it 
carefully.  "I  think  there  is  a  little  more  water  here 
and  not  quite  so  much  there,  pilot,"  he  added,  turning 
to  the  officer  and  pointing  at  different  places. 

"You  may  be  right,  Mr.  Peyton,"  answered  the 
pilot. 

"I  used  to  notice  that  right  there  it  was  pretty  shoal 
and  it  used  to  be  deeper  here.  In  its  main  features, 
however,  I  think  your  lines  are  very  accurate." 

"That's  good!"  exclaimed  the  admiral.  "Now  as 
to  the  obstructions.  You  have  been  up  there  two  or 
three  times  at  night.  You  never  saw  any  obstruc 
tions  close  under  Fort  Morgan?" 

"No,  sir,  never;  at  least,  no  evidence  of  them.  The 
piles  come  down  there  to  starboard,"  pointing,  "but 
the  waters  are  shoal  there;  we  could  not  pass  anyway. 
Of  course,  there  is  a  triple  line  of  torpedoes  right 
across  the  channel  except  that  space  under  the  guns 
of  the  fort  to  the  eastward  of  that  buoy,  about  two 
hundred  and  fifty  yards  across,  I  take  it,  which  seems 
to  be  a  clear  channel.  We  sunk  the  buoys,  but  I 
doubt  if  we  have  damaged  the  torpedoes  any." 

"They've  left  that  space  open  for  blockaders,  of 
course,"  said  Drayton. 

"Well,  we'll  run  our  own  blockade  in  the  morning 
in  spite  of  ships,  fort,  or  torpedoes.  You  have  been 
in  Fort  Morgan,  Peyton,  I  suppose,  in  the  old  days?" 

"Yes,  sir.     Many  times." 
270 


PEYTON    POINTS    OUT    THE   WAY 

"How  is  this  plan  of  it?"  thrusting  another  paper 
toward  him. 

"That  is  the  way  it  used  to  be,  as  I  recall  it.  Of 
course,  they  may  have  done  a  great  deal  to  it  since 
then." 

"And  the  water  battery  you  say  is  right  there?" 

"Yes,  sir.  It  masks  the  curtain  that  looks  to  the 
northwest  between  these  two  bastions.  Its  guns  bear 
square  across  the  channel." 

"And  the  fort  has  a  raking  fire  on  us  until  we  come 
abreast  of  it." 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Freeman,"  said  the  admrial,  turning  to  the  pilot, 
"you  know  just  how  to  take  us  in  to-morrow  morn- 
ing?" 

"Yes,  Admiral." 

"You  will  be  in  the  main-top,  as  usual?" 

"Yes,  sir.  That's  the  best  place  for  me.  I  can 
communicate  with  the  deck  by  the  speaking-tube  along 
the  mast,  and  I  can  direct  our  consort  the  Metacomet 
by  hand." 

"I  shall  be  right  beneath  you,"  said  the  admiral, 
"and  in  touch  with  you.  By  the  way,  I  think  it  would 
be  just  as  well  for  us  to  take  the  tender  and  go  up 
above  Sand  Island  and  take  a  final  look  at  things  this 
afternoon.  Drayton,  will  you  oblige  me  by  seeing 
that  the  necessary  signals  are  made?  I  shall  want  you 
and  Watson  to  go,  and  you  might  call  the  command 
ing  officers  of  the  other  ships  to  go  with  us.  That  will 
do,  Freeman.  No,  wait  a  moment,  Peyton;  I  want 
to  speak  with  you,"  he  added,  as  the  others  left  the 
cabin. 

271 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 


P 


A  PROMOTION  DECLINED 

EYTON,"  said  the  admiral,  thought 
fully,  "I  have  been  thinking  hard  over 
your  case,  and  if  you  like  I  will  de 
tach  you  from  the  Hartford  and  send 
you  over  to  the  Pembina,  which  is  to 
remain  outside.  You  will  have  plenty 
to  do  on  her,  as  the  squadron  I  leave 
behind  will  engage  the  works  south 
of  the  point  to  make  a  diversion  in 
our  favor." 

"What,  Admiral!"  cried  the  young 
man,    "relieve    me    from    my    station 
on  the  day  of  battle!     Take  me  out 
of    action!     Sir!      Why!— I—"      He 
sprang  to   his   feet,   his   face  flushed 
with    indignation.      "I    don't    under 
stand  you,  sir !"  he  burst  out. 
The  admiral  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  eyed  him 
narrowly,  with  a  glance  that  seemed  to  pierce  through 
and  through  him. 

"You  cannot  mean  it,  sir !"  Peyton  continued,  hotly. 
"It's — it's — saving  that  we  know  you,  sir,  and  love 

you,  one  would  almost  say  it  was  an  in " 

"Hold  on,  my  lad !"  said  the  admiral,  quietly.  "Your 
father  commands  that  fort.  Your  brother  is  on  the 
Tennessee.  The  place  is  sacred  in  your  memory,  for  I 

272 


A    PROMOTION    DECLINED 

take  it,  from  what  you  say  and  from  what  I  have  heard, 
that  it  is  associated  with  one  even  dearer  to  you. 
There  is  no  dishonor  in  my  proposition.  I  am  giving 
you  a  chance  in  one  sense.  In  its  way  it  is  a  promo 
tion.  I  can  give  you  the  command  of  the  Pembina. 
You  have  shown  your  devotion  to  the  cause  by  your 
recent  search  for  torpedoes  and  mines  in  the  channel. 
I  don't  want  to  compel  you  to  do  violence  to  your  feel- 
ings." 

"Admiral  Farragut,"  said  Peyton,  impetuously,  for 
getting  in  some  part  the  distinction  of  age  and  rank 
which  lay  between  them,  "my  feelings  have  nothing 
to  do  with  my  duty.  My  father  did  everything  to 
keep  me  for  the  South — my  mother,  my  sister,  and 
— the  woman  I  was  engaged  to  marry,  but  I  broke 
away.  Your  own  letter  to  me  came  in  the  nick  of 
time,  sir,  although  I  had  already  decided.  Father  in 
his  excitement  and  anger  said  things  that  perhaps  he 
did  not  mean." 

"I  am  sure  he  didn't,"  broke  in  the  admiral,  kindly. 

"But,  sir,  he'd  rather  see  me  dead,  I  am  sure,  a 
thousand  times,  than  have  me  accept  your  offer.  By 
heavens,  sir,  I'd  rather  be  a  lieutenant  on  the  Hartford 
in  this  action  than  the  captain  of  the  W 'abash  or  the 
Colorado  out  at  sea!  They,  my  people,  haven't  any 
love  left  for  me,  no  affection,  but  if  they  had  it  would 
wither  if  I  did  this.  No,  sir !  If  you  leave  the  choice 
to  me — and  you  would  not  order  me  away,  surely, 
under  such  circumstances — I  stay  with  you." 

"That's  well  said,"  cried  the  admiral,  heartily.  "I 
knew  how  it  would  be.  It  would  have  broken  my 

273 


THE "  SOUTHERNERS 

heart,  boy,  if  you  had  gone.  Besides,  I  want  you,  I 
need  you,  here." 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

"Freeman  is  our  only  pilot.  Should  anything  hap 
pen  to  him  your  services  would  be  invaluable.  I  shall 
want  you  on  deck  directly  beneath  me  during  the  ac 
tion.  I  will  arrange  with  Captain  Drayton  that  you 
are  freed  from  duty  with  your  division.  You  can  carry 
my  orders  to  the  different  parts  of  the  ship,  if  I  have 
any  to  give,  and  you  will  be  on  hand  to  take  Freeman's 
place  and  pilot  us  in  if  anything  happens  to  him." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  Peyton,  greatly  relieved.  "I 
shall  be  ready." 

"And  by  the  way,"  added  the  admiral,  "I  want  you 
to  go  with  us  in  the  tender  when  we  reconnoitre  the 
forts  this  afternoon.  Perhaps  you  can  give  us  some 
more  information  about  the  situation." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir." 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door  of  the  cabin  at  that 
instant. 

"Come  in,"  called  out  the  admiral.  An  ensign  en 
tered  and  saluted. 

"Captain  Drayton's  compliments,  sir,  and  he  says  the 
Pensacola  and  Tecumseh  have  been  signalled  to  sea 
ward;  they'll  be  here  by  seven  bells,  sir." 

"Very  good,  Mr.  Brownell,"  said  Farragut,  as  the 
officer  saluted  and  vanished.  "That  settles  it !  We'll 
go  in  in  the  morning!  Now,  Mr.  Peyton,"  he  con 
tinued,  resuming  his  formal  address,  "direct  the 
officer  of  the  deck  to  let  me  know  as  soon  as  the 
Cowslip  [the  tender]  is  alongside  and  the  captains 

274 


A    PROMOTION    DECLINED 

have  assembled.  Meanwhile  bid  him  see  that  I  am 
not  disturbed,  unless  matters  of  great  importance 
come  up,  until  I  return  on  deck." 

As  Peyton  followed  the  ensign  out  the  admiral  was 
left  alone  in  his  cabin. 

"Poor  lad,"  he  thought  resting  his  elbow  on  the 
table  and  playing  with  his  chin  as  was  his  habit,  "father, 
brother,  and  sweetheart,  all  against  him !  And  two  of 
them  under  our  guns !  Yet  how  nobly  he  rose  to  that 
test!  The  honest  indignation  of  a  born  sailor!  I 
should  have  despised  him  if  he  had  accepted  my  offer ! 
Courage!  The  lad  has  plenty  of  it!  And  of  the 
rare-two-o'clock-in-the-morning  kind !  Not  many  men 
I've  met  have  that  kind  either.  I'm  glad  he  chose 
rightly.  The  place  of  honor's  here.  Now  if  anything 
happens  to  Freeman  I  can  trust  the  ship  to  him. 

"Ah,  what  a  dreadful  thing  is  war !  It  seems  to  me  I 
can  remember  every  soul  I  have  ever  seen  killed  on 
the  decks  of  a  ship  from  the  day  the  Phoebe  and  the 
Cherub  turned  the  Essex  into  a  slaughter-house  up  to 
that  last  night  in  the  Mississippi.  I  suppose  to-mor 
row  many  a  good  fellow  will  lose  the  number  of  his 
mess,  perhaps  I  may  be  one.  Well,  I  have  still  one 
thing  to  do." 

He  pushed  the  charts  aside  and  taking  a  sheet  of 
note-paper  from  the  drawer  wrote  rapidly  in  his  bold 
free  hand  for  a  short  time.  After  he  had  finished  he 
sat  staring  down  at  the  words  he  had  written.  Pres 
ently  with  a  deep  flush  on  his  bronzed  cheek,  looking 
furtively  around  as  if  to  make  sure  of  the  impossibility 
of  anyone  seeing  him,  he  raised  the  letter  to  his  lips. 

275 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Then  he  folded  it,  put  it  in  an  envelope,  which  he 
sealed  and  addressed  to  Mrs.  D.  G.  Farragut,  Hast- 
ings-on-the-Hudson,  New  York.  Then  he  sat  quietly 
in  his  cabin,  his  elbows  on  the  table  and  his  face 
buried  in  his  hands.  He  was  thinking  and  praying. 
He  reminds  me  a  little  of  the  great  Nelson  on  his  knees 
in  the  cabin  of  the  Victory  before  Trafalgar;  but  Far 
ragut  was  incomparably  the  finer,  higher  type  of  man. 
This  was  the  letter  that  he  had  written,  and  no 
braver,  tenderer  words  were  ever  penned  by  a  great 
captain  on  the  eve  of  his  greatest  battle  than  these  that 
follow : 

FLAG-SHIP  HARTFORD, 
Off  Mobile,  August  4,  1864. 

MY  DEAREST  WIFE  :  I  write  and  leave  this  letter 
for  you.  I  am  going  into  Mobile  Bay  in  the  morning, 
if  God  is  my  leader,  as  I  hope  He  is,  and  in  Him  I 
place  my  trust.  If  He  thinks  it  is  the  proper  place  for 
me  to  die,  I  am  ready  to  submit  to  His  will,  in  that  as 
in  all  other  things.  My  great  mortification  is,  that  my 
vessels,  the  iron-clads,  were  not  ready  to  have  gone  in 
yesterday.  The  army  landed  last  night,  and  are  in  full 
view  of  us  this  morning,  and  the  Tecumseh  has  not  yet 
arrived  from  Pensacola. 

God  bless  you  and  preserve  you,  my  darling,  and 
my  dear  boy,  if  anything  should  happen  to  me,  and 
may  His  blessings  also  rest  upon  your  dear  mother, 
and  all  your  sisters  and  their  children. 

Your  devoted  and  affectionate  husband,  who  never 
for  one  moment  forgot  his  love,  duty,  or  fidelity  to 
you,  his  devoted  and  best  of  wives. 

D.  G.  FARRAGUT. 

To  Mrs.  D.  G.  Farragut, 

Hastings-on-the-Hudson. 

276 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


IN  THE  WARDROOM   OF  THE   HARTFORD 

IGHT  bells  had  struck  on  the  flagship, 
hammocks  had  been  piped  down, 
watches  set,  and  other  preparations 
made  for  the  night.  The  last  orders 
had  been  issued  to  the  fleet,  the  final 
preparations  made  by  the  different 
ships,  and  everything  was  ready  for 
the  battle  in  the  morning.  The  sea 
was  smooth;  a  light  shower  followed 
by  a  gentle  breeze  tempered  the  sum 
mer  heat.  The  wind  poured  refresh 
ingly  through  the  dead-eyes,  opened  on 
account  of  the  calm  weather,  from 
one  side  of  the  ship  to  the  other.  In 
the  wardroom  of  the  Hartford  the 
officers  of  the  ship  not  on  watch  were  congregated 
around  a  .long  table  running  the  full  length  of  the 
room.  The  insufficient  light  from  the  hanging  lamp 
was  supplemented  by  candles  flaring  and  guttering  on 
the  table.  And  the  same  scene  was  being  enacted 
throughout  the  fleet. 

At  the  head  of  the  table  sat  Kimberly,  the  executive 
officer.  Near  him  was  Watson,  Farragut's  gallant 
flag  lieutenant,  while  Peyton  sat  about  midway  down. 
Pens,  ink,  and  paper  were  strewn  over  the  table,  and 

277 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

every  man  was  busily  writing,  everyone  but  Pey 
ton,  that  is. 

)  The  faces  of  all  were  grave  and  quiet.  The  work 
of  the  coming  morning  was  to  be  no  child's  play. 
The  odds  were  against  the  fleet;  a  powerful  fort,  lines 
of  torpedoes  and  mines,  the  most  formidable  iron-clad 
afloat,  the  gunboats,  the  obstructions  to  the  channel, 
the  uncertain  water,  all  constituted  a  series  of  dangers 
full  of  the  most  sinister  menace.  It  was  a  military 
maxim  that  one  gun  on  shore  was  equal  to  three 
afloat,  too.  A  few  years  since  only  a  madman  would 
have  dreamed  of  pitting  a  fleet  like  Farragut's  against 
such  defences.  But  Farragut  had  revolutionized 
naval  warfare  in  the  Mississippi  and  he  faced  the  issue 
at  Mobile  with  a  heart  confident  of  success  although 
without  underestimating  any  of  the  dangers,  dangers 
of  which  all  the  officers  and  even  the  seamen  in  the 
fleet  were  profoundly  aware.  It  was  morally  certain 
that  not  all  of  the  ships  would  get  through  safely;  it 
was  thought  if  they  passed  the  fort  the  torpedoes 
would  account  for  some,  and  after  all  had  been  done 
there  was  the  Tennessee.  The  Merrimac,  a  less  pow 
erful  vessel,  had  crushed  the  Congress  and  the  Cum 
berland  like  paper  at  Hampton  Roads  in  '62 — well, 
they  would  take  care  of  her  in  some  way.  They 
would  win  out  in  the  end.  The  admiral  would  do 
it.  They  had  confidence  in  him.  But  he  would  have 
to  pay  a  price  for  his  victory.  They  might  be  the 
price.  There  was  good  cause  for  gravity  therefore  as 
they  wrote  to  dear  ones  at  home,  some  of  them  for 
the  last  time. 


IN   THE  WARDROOM   OF  THE  HARTFORD 

That  little  feeling  of  depression  that  comes  over 
men  just  before  action,  which  is  to  temperament  what 
dawn  or  dusk  is  to  day  or  night,  was  upon  them.  That 
solemn  little  moment  betwixt  and  between  the  passive 
and  the  active  phases  of  life,  when  lingering  thoughts 
of  quiet  days  mingle  with  the  high  appeals  of  the 
strenuous  hour,  had  at  last  arrived. 

It  was  remarkably  still  in  the  wardroom.  Scarcely 
a  sound  was  heard  above  the  deep  breathing  of  the 
men  but  the  steady  scratching  of  the  pens,  punctuated 
by  an  infrequent  and  suppressed  sigh  at  intervals. 
They  were  writing  to  their  wives,  their  children,  their 
mothers,  their  sweethearts,  their  friends.  Once  in  a 
while  a  suspicious  sniff  might  be  heard,  or  one  of  those 
violent  blasts  of  the  nose  with  which  men  shamefacedly 
seek  to  disguise  their  finer  emotions.  Sometimes  the 
back  of  a  hand  or  the  tip  of  a  finger  went  furtively  to 
the  corner  of  an  eye.  To  use  a  handkerchief  would 
have  been  a  betrayal.  Everybody  saw  or  divined  these 
motions,  but  nobody  paid  any  attention. 

They  could  enter  into  each  other's  feelings,  and 
there  was  much  sympathy  in  the  silence.  There  would 
be  time  on  the  morrow  to  think  of  little  but  the  battle. 
They  were  giving  their  thoughts  to  home  now.  They 
were  writing  those  last  precious  words,  which,  whether 
they  lived  or  died,  would  stand  for  so  much  to  those 
for  whom  they  were  destined;  for  they  would  be  ex 
pressions  of  the  heart  in  the  face  of  possible  or  im 
pending  death,  when  all  that  is  true  in  a  man  speaks 
forth  to  those  he  loves. 

They  were  all  writing,  I  have  said,  but  Peyton.  To 
279 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

whom  should  he  write?  he  thought  bitterly,  as  he  held 
the  pen  idly  in  his  fingers  and  stared  at  the  white  paper 
from  which  the  noble  and  beautiful  face  of  Mary 
Annan,  embodied  in  the  flesh  almost,  such  was  the 
reality  of  his  vision,  seemed  to  smile  up  at  him. 

They  were  separated  as  widely  as  the  East  is  from 
the  West;  nay,  why  use  the  ancient  simile — why  not 
write,  as  far  as  the  North  was  from  the  South?  Be 
tween  them  yawned  a  great  chasm  of  war  and  carnage. 
The  blood  of  slain  armies,  the  cries  of  women  and  chil 
dren,  the  antagonism  of  four  blasting  years  of  terrible 
conflict  intervened.  Yes,  something  more.  He  had 
deceived  her,  had  broken  faith  with  her,  gained  her 
affection — ah,  had  he  gained  it,  after  all? — under  false 
pretences. 

He  had  been  faithless  to  her  idea  of  duty.  But  not 
to  his  own.  Since  the  day  he  had  left  Mobile  with  old 
Dr.  Bampney's  hands  uplifted  toward  him  in  benedic 
tion,  with  Dr.  Venosste's  white  head  bowed  at  the  side 
of  the  clergyman,  he  had  never  faltered  in  that  de 
termination.  He  had  never  regretted  it.  He  sor 
rowed  bitterly  on  account  of  his  separation  from  all  he 
loved,  the  cruel  judgment  in  which  they  held  him, 
the  hatred  and  obloquy  heaped  upon  him — all  that 
broke  his  heart.  But  he  was  satisfied  with  the  de 
cision  he  had  made  in  that  terrible  crisis  which  had 
been  forced  upon  him.  His  consciousness  of  the  up 
rightness  of  his  course  as  he  saw  it,  was  profound  and 
absolute.  Loving  the  South  as  he  did,  there  was  yet 
no  more  loyal  man  on  earth  to  the  Federal  Union  in 

280 


IN   THE   WARDROOM   OF  THE  HARTFORD 

behalf  of  which  he  had  drawn  his  sword.  He  was 
entirely  satisfied  that  he  had  done  right. 

What  he  did  regret,  however,  was  that  he  had  hesi 
tated  for  a  single  moment.  For  that  hesitation  Mary 
Annan,  the  beautiful,  the  elusive,  the  fascinating  Mary 
Annan,  herself  had  been  responsible.  She  was  at  once 
the  cause  and  the  victim  of  the  situation. 

It  had  come  to  him  in  a  roundabout  way,  while  he 
had  been  on  the  blockade  during  the  past  year,  that 
she  had  engaged  herself  to  his  rival  and  former  friend, 
Bob  Darrow.  He  had  heard  nothing  of  the  fate  of 
the  latter.  He  knew  little  of  what  had  happened  in 
Mobile  during  those  four  years.  Not  a  direct  word 
had  ever  come  to  him  from  anyone  who  had  loved  him. 
She  might  be  dead,  she  might  be  wedded,  for  aught 
he  knew.  Oh,  rather  the  former  than  the  latter,  he 
thought  fiercely!  If  not  in  his  arms,  then  in  no 
other's,  for  he  loved  her  still  with  a  passion  that  sur 
passed  her  own.  It  had  grown  and  grown.  He  had 
thought  himself  possessed  by  her  before,  but  he  knew 
that  what  he  had  felt  was  nothing,  had  been  nothing, 
to  what  he  experienced  for  her  now. 

Ever  since  his  ship  had  been  off  Mobile  he  had  a 
consciousness  so  elusive  as  to  be  indescribable,  so  un 
real  as  to  mock  him  with  its  vague  indefiniteness,  yet 
so  powerful  after  all  that  he  was  forced  to  recognize 
it,  a  consciousness  of  her  nearness — of  her  love  even ! 
It  had  sustained  him,  uplifted  him,  given  a  little  hope. 

He  did  not  believe  that  she  was  dead.  Some  word, 
some  warning  of  it,  would  have  been  dragged  from 
the  unknown  by  the  compelling  character  of  his  feel- 

281 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

ings.  He  could  not  believe  that  she  was  married, 
either.  She  was  so  much  his  own  in  his  mind  that 
the  thought  of  marriage  to  another  was  almost  like 
profanation.  She  must  love  him!  The  war  must 
end  some  time;  if  he  survived  it  and  she  still  lived  he 
might  find  her  again,  persuade  her  to  love  him;  they 
might  be  together  once  more  and  for  life ! 

She  had  rejected  him,  of  course.  She  had  heaped 
scorn  and  contempt  upon  him.  Well,  from  her  point 
of  view  he  had  deserved  it.  She  had  looked  at  him 
on  the  porch  as  if  she  could  have  killed  him.  Had  her 
eyes  been  arrows  he  might  have  been  slain,  so  hate- 
envenomed  had  been  their  glance.  Yet  he  remem 
bered  that  when  Darrow,  inspired  by  her  mordant 
words,  had  moved  forward  to  strike  him  unresisting 
she  had  blindly  interfered.  Why  that? 

He  sat  there  still  with  his  pen  idle  in  his  hand  while 
his  shipmates  wrote.  Should  he  write  to  her?  Would 
she  care?  Would  she  read  what  he  had  written?  If 
he  were  alive,  no;  if  he  were  dead,  yes,  perhaps.  Well, 
if  he  survived  the  action  matters  would  be  as  they  had 
been  before,  and  if  he  fell  she  might  some  day  care  for 
a  letter  from  his  hand.  He  would  write  to  her,  after 
all. 

He  drew  a  sheet  of  paper  before  him,  lifted  the  pen 
again,  and  found  himself  facing  another  question. 
What  should  he  say  to  her?  Should  he  explain,  should 
he  appeal,  should  he  justify  himself?  Nay,  to  attempt 
these  things  would  be  useless.  Thinking  deeply,  he 
resolved  what  he  would  do. 

He  told  her  how  he  loved  her  in  a  few  words  that 
282 


IN   THE  WARDROOM   OF  THE  HARTFORD 

almost  seemed  to  burn  the  page.  He  told  her  that 
while  his  duty  and  his  honor  had  constrained  him  to 
take  the  course  he  had,  yet  with  every  fibre  of  his 
being,  with  every  throb  of  his  heart,  with  every  emo 
tion  of  his  soul,  he  loved  her !  He  always  would  love 
her!  When  she  would  be  reading  this  that  he  was 
writing  he  would  be  beyond  her  censure  or  approval, 
but  he  could  not  rest  in  his  grave,  he  could  not  be 
happy  even  in  a  heaven,  unless  she  knew  and  believed 
that  he  was  absolutely  hers,  saving  his  honor  and  duty, 
unless  she  realized  that  he  loved  her  absolutely  and  en 
tirely  and  forever! 

"Take,"  he  wrote,  "whatever  may  be  your  future, 
dear,  the  memory  of  an  affection  such  as  comes  to 
few  women.  It  can  neither  hurt  nor  harm  you  now. 
And  remember" — he  could  not  avoid  this  one  sen 
tence  of  exculpation — "that  if  I  had  not  been  true  to 
my  duty,  if  I  had  not  followed  the  path  where  honor 
led,  the  affection  which  I  ask  you  not  to  forget 
would  have  been  an  insult,  not  an  honor,  to  any  honest 
woman.  And  I  beg  you  again  to  forgive  that  one  kiss 
on  the  porch.  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  It  seemed  to 
me  at  that  moment  that  you  almost  loved  me.  The 
touch  of  your  lips  has  abided  with  me.  I  shall  take  it 
out  into  eternity.  The  mocking-bird  has  never  sung 
in  my  ear  without  bringing  your  picture,  your  cheek, 
with  the  color  coming,  the  rise  and  fall  of  your  bosom, 
your  eyes  ashine  in  the  darkness  and  looking  love  into 
mine.  The  song  reminds  me  of  you,  Mary  Annan. 
Ah,  well  is  it  named  the  mocking-bird!  This  is  all. 
I  would  not  tire  you.  This  is  only  to  ask  you  to  re- 

283 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

member;  but  whether  you  do  or  not  it  is  neverthe 
less  true  that  on  the  eve  of  a  great  battle,  with  death 
looking  me  in  the  face,  I  have  told  you  the  truth  only. 
But  not  all  of  it.  No  words  can  frame,  no  paper  hold, 
that  which  is  in  my  heart.  Good-night,  good-by,  and 
God  bless  you." 

It  was  a  brief  letter,  but  the  most  indifferent  woman 
could  not  have  read  it  unmoved.  It  breathed  a  passion 
that  would  live,  and  the  most  heedless  memory  could 
not  forget  it. 

There  was  something  else  to  be  done.  There  were 
others  to  whom  his  mind  turned.  His  mother,  his 
sweet-faced,  soft-voiced,  young  mother — his  heart  had 
many  a  time  quivered  at  the  recollection  that  she  had 
pleaded  for  him  on  the  porch.  In  imagination  he  put 
his  head  down  at  her  knee  as  he  had  done  as  a  little 
boy  learning  to  say,  "Now  I  lay  me."  And  so  he 
wrote  to  her  too.  There  were  words  for  Pink  and 
Willis — appeals  that  they  would  think  of  him  kindly 
and  try  to  understand  his  position.  Indeed,  he  had 
never  forgotten  Willis  for  the  impulsive  yet  generous 
action  which  had  prevented  him  from  leaving  home 
without  a  single  friendly  word.  He  loved  the  boy, 
a  man  now,  and  supporting  his  flag  on  the  mighty 
Tennessee.  There  was  his  father,  too.  What  did  the 
stern,  implacable  old  man  think  of  him  now? 

War  is  a  great  dispeller  of  animosities  of  one 
kind.  Or  it  may  have  been  peculiar  to  this  par 
ticular  war  that  it  beat  down  hatreds  and  men  saw 
things  more  clearly  in  the  mist  and  smoke  of  battle 
than  in  the  sunlight  of  peace.  He  wondered  if,  from 

284 


IN   THE   WARDROOM   OF  THE  HARTFORD 

the  ramparts  of  Fort  Morgan,  his  father  had  watched 
the  ships  with  a  thought  of  him,  as  often  as  he  had, 
looking  at  the  fort  from  the  deck  of  the  Hartford. 
When  he  had  rowed  cautiously  up  the  channel  to  re 
connoitre  the  torpedo  line  a  few  nights  since  he  had 
almost  felt  impelled  to  turn  his  boat  into  the  wharf 
back  of  the  fort  in  the  bay  and  run  to  the  old  man 
and  beg,  if  not  for  forgiveness,  for  a  kindly  word  of 
greeting. 

And  now  he  was  about  to  fire  upon  him.  He  was 
to  turn  the  great  guns  of  his  division  on  the  Hartford 
full  upon  the  fort  where  his  father  commanded.  Per 
haps  he  might  be  called  upon  to  lead  the  ships  up  the 
channel.  And  if  that  were  not  enough  he,  with  the 
rest  of  the  ships  in  company,  was  to  engage  in  mortal 
combat  with  the  Tennessee  and  his  brother;  a  missile 
hurled  from  a  gun,  the  lock-string  of  which  quivered  in 
his  own  hand,  might  carry  death  or  destruction  to  one 
or  the  other  of  the  men  he  loved. 

There  was  agony  in  the  thought,  torture,  but  no 
hesitation  in  his  mind.  He  could  not  have  given 
up  his  position  on  the  Hartford  for  any  consideration. 
This  was  a  fratricidal  war  at  best,  such  possibilities  as 
he  imagined  had  to  be  faced.  It  was  a  part  of  duty. 
Ah,  the  grinding  compulsion  of  that  iron  word !  Pey 
ton's  sailorly  honor  and  his  devotion  to  duty  had  be 
come  so  intensified  that  he  was  almost  quixotic  upon 
them.  Indeed  honor  and  duty  were  all  that  were  left 
him  to  cling  to,  except  the  affection  of  his  new 
friends. 

He  finished  the  letters,  inclosing  Mary  Annan's  in 
the  one  addressed  to  his  mother,  begging  her  to  read 

285 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

and  deliver  it,  and  then  he  abandoned  himself  to  his 
thoughts.  Most  of  the  other  men  in  the  wardroom 
had  finished  their  letters  by  this  time  as  well.  Those 
who  had  completed  the  task  sat  silent  for  a  while,  star 
ing  at  the  table,  loath  to  speak.  Finally  Kimberly 
broke  the  silence. 

"Here,  fellows/'  he  said,  "this  will  never  do !  We'll 
go  into  action  in  a  blue  funk  if  we  don't  brace  up. 
Somebody  start  up  a  song.  Now,  dash  it  all,  Whit 
ing,"  he  continued,  as  a  young  ensign  started  to  sing 
'Home,  Sweet  Home,'  not  that,  not  to-night,  anyway. 
Let  us  have  The  Bay  of  Biscay,  O !'  Give  us  a  regu 
lar  old-timer.  That's  right !"  he  cried,  as  the  ensign's 
clear  voice  rose  in  the  room.  "Now  men,  all  of  you, 
come  in  in  the  chorus,"  beating  time.  "Heave  away ! 
That's  it!" 

They  were  glad  of  the  relief  afforded  by  the  song, 
which  seemed  to  shatter  the  quiet  and  gloom  which 
hung  over  them.  One  song  started  another,  pres 
ently  someone  told  a  story,  and  a  second  capped  it 
with  another;  the  room  was  filled  with  laughter  and 
merriment  for  an  hour.  Presently  the  black  steward 
of  the  wardroom  came  in  with  a  pitcher  of  water  and 
a  rare  piece  of  ice. 

"No  whiskey  or  liquor  to-night,  lads,"  said  Kimber 
ly,  gayly.  "We'll  drink  the  sweetest  toast  in  the  purest 
liquid.  It  is  getting  late.  We  have  had  our  hour  of 
sadness  and  our  hour  of  fun.  I'll  give  you  a  toast — 
the  Saturday  night  toast.  Come,  everybody,  take  a 
glass.  What,  Peyton,  are  you  going?" 

"Yes,  Kim/'  answered  Peyton,  "I— I  think  I'll  go 
286 


IN   THE  WARDROOM   OF  THE  HARTFORD 

up  on  deck  and  relieve  Yates.  He  has  a  wife,  you 
know,  and  he  can  drink  the  toast.  I  don't  need  to." 

"We'll  drink  it  for  you,  old  man,"  cried  Heywood, 
the  marine  officer,  clapping  him  affectionately  on  the 
shoulder. 

"And  my  lad,"  said  Kimberly,  grasping  his  hand, 
"we  know  the  circumstances,  of  course.  We  feel  for 
you.  We  wish  somebody  else  was  in  command  of 
that  fort." 

"I  don't,"  said  Peyton,  sternly.  "My  father  will 
put  up  a  fight  that  will  make  your  hair  turn  gray,  and 
that's  what  you  want.  And  I  reckon  my  brother  will 
keep  up  his  end  on  the  Tennessee,  too." 

"Before  we  drink  the  toast,  fellows,"  said  Watson, 
"let's  give  three  cheers  for  the  Peytons — the  old  man 
on  the  fort,  the  boy  on  the  Tennessee,  and  our  own 
shipmate  on  the  Hartford.  Thank  God,  there  is 
good  fighting  blood  in  all  of  them." 

The  little  room  rang  with  cheers  as  Peyton  sprang 
up  the  companion-ladder  with  a  heart  so  full  that  he 
could  scarcely  contain  himself.  As  Yates,  happy  to  be 
relieved,  came  tumbling  down  below  Peyton  leaning 
over  the  hatchway  heard  Kimberly  give  the  immortal 
toast  of  the  navy: 

"Sweethearts  and  wives — may  the  former  soon  be 
the  latter,  and  the  latter  always  be  the  former." 

They  drank  it  in  silence  and  separated  for  the  night, 
Some  for  a  quiet  smoke,  forward,  others  for  deep, 
heavy  sleep ;  some  for  night-watches,  others  to  turn  in 
anxiety  in  their  berths  until  the  breaking  of  the  porten 
tous  day. 

287 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Peyton  leaned  over  the  railing  and  looked  toward 
the  lights  of  Fort  Morgan,  with  a  longing  and  heart 
ache  that  cannot  be  described.  He  had  been  nerving 
himself  for  this  situation  for  four  years,  and  now  that 
it  had  come  upon  him  he  found  himself  still  unpre 
pared.  His  father  on  the  fort  was  at  that  moment 
gazing  at  the  fleet  below  him  and  wondering  when 
they  would  attack.  And  Willis,  keeping  watch  on  the 
superstructure  of  the  Tennessee,  thought  with  a  strange 
pang,  a  foreboding,  that  night,  of  the  soon-to-be-ex 
pected  meeting  of  the  ships.  The  fighting  blood  of 
the  Peytons  was  up  though.  There  would  be  no 
shrinking  in  any  one  of  the  three.  Morning  might 
find  any  of  them  struck  down,  but  in  the  line  of 
duty,  at  the  post  of  honor. 

Boyd  Peyton  could  see  in  imagination — stop !  He 
could  not  continue  in  this  strain,  he  would  need  all  his 
powers  in  the  morning.  He  must  be  cool  and  self- 
possessed  then.  Yet  he  could  not  get  those  he  cared 
for  out  of  his  thoughts.  If  anyone  died  he  prayed 
it  should  be  he.  He  stood  on  the  poop-deck  leaning 
against  the  Parrott  rifle,  still  staring  at  the  fort.  A 
step  sounded  on  the  deck  beside  him,  breaking  his 
reverie.  He  turned  to  meet  the  admiral.  The  old 
man  walked  with  as  jaunty  a  step  as  if  he  had  been  a 
boy. 

"Asleep  or  dreaming,  Mr.  Peyton,"  he  asked,  smil 
ing. 

"Neither,  sir,  just  watching  Fort  Morgan." 

"How  peaceful  it  looks!     And  you  were  thinking 

of " 

288 


IN   THE  WARDROOM   OF  THE  HARTFORD 

"Of  my  father  and  brother,  sir,  of  home  and  mother 
and  Mary  Annan  up  the  bay." 

The  night,  the  silence,  the  loneliness  made  the 
young  man  more  communicative;  the  admiral  inspired 
confidence  and  welcomed  it.  He  had  known  Peyton 
ever  since  the  latter  graduated  from  the  Academy,  and 
the  younger  man  loved  him  with  unusual  affection, 
which  the  admiral  reciprocated  in  full. 

"Ah,  that's  her  name,  is  it?"  said  the  old  sailor, 
gently  and  kindly.  "Well,  pray  God  that  we  may 
come  through  safely,  and  that  there  will  be  no  more 
heartaches  in  homes  than  is  absolutely  necessary."  He 
laid  his  firm,  well-shaped  hand  upon  the  young  officer's 
shoulder  in  a  kindly,  sympathetic  touch.  "Keep  a 
bright  lookout,  Peyton,"  he  said  at  last,  "and  don't 
hesitate  to  call  me  if  anything  suspicious  occurs.  It 
would  not  surprise  me  if  Buchanan  came  out  with  the 
ram  to  attack  us  at  any  moment.  It  would  disappoint 
me  dreadfully  if  he  did,  though.  I  want  to  catch  him 
inside,  now  that  we  are  ready,  and  finish  up  the  whole 
job  at  one  blow.  Where's  the  ensign  of  the  watch?" 

"Forward,  sir." 

"When  I  was  on  the  Essex,  I  remember,  as  a  mid 
shipman,  just  turned  eleven  years  of  age,  I  went  to 
sleep  lying  on  a  gun-carriage  in  a  mid-watch  one  night. 
The  watch-officer  saw  me,  and  instead  of  waking  me 
up  he  actually  covered  me  over  with  his  jacket  and  let 
me  sleep  on!"  said  the  admiral,  reminiscently.  "I 
ought  to  have  been  court-martialed  for  it,  but  I've  al 
ways  been  grateful  to  him,  and  I've  never  forgotten  his 
reprimand,  either." 

289 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"No  one  on  watch  will  sleep  to-night,  Admiral." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.  There  are  thoughts  grim 
enough  to  keep  them  awake,  now.  How's  the  wind?" 

"Little  enough,  sir,  but  what  there  is  is  from  the 
southwest." 

"That  is  where  we  want  it.  Looks  black  off  there, 
too." 

"Yes,  sir,  I  think  we  shall  get  another  squall  of 
rain." 

"Well,  rain  or  shine,  we  go  in  with  the  flood  in  the 
morning.  I  think  I  shall  turn  in  now,  and  as  soon  as 
your  watch  is  over  do  you  try  to  get  a  little  sleep. 
Remember  that  I,  that  we,  that  the  country  needs  the 
best  there  is  in  you  to-morrow." 

The  admiral  wrung  the  hand  of  the  young  officer, 
turned  on  his  heel  and  walked  quietly  to  his  cabin. 
But  Peyton  could  not  follow  the  kindly  advice.  When 
he  went  off  watch  at  eight  bells,  midnight,  he  could 
not  sleep  for  the  trouble  in  his  mind.  And  how  much 
greater  would  have  been  his  anguish  if  he  had  realized 
that  Mary  Annan  sat  that  night  in  one  of  the  case 
mates  at  Fort  Morgan ! 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 


BETTER    IN    THE    MORNING 


A 


FEW  days  before  the  battle  the  Ivan- 
hoe,  a  blockade  runner,  had  been 
chased  ashore  under  the  guns  of  Fort 
Morgan,  where  she  had  been  destroyed 
by  some  of  the  light-draught  gun 
boats  of  the  fleet.  While  with  a  party 
of  men  from  the  fort,  endeavoring  to 
save  some  of  her  cargo,  Beverly 
Annan  had  been  struck  in  the  abdo 
men  by  a  piece  of  a  shell.  The  wound 
was  necessarily  fatal.  Mary  Annan 
had  been  at  once  summoned  from 
Mobile  by  telegraph  and  had  come 
down  to  the  fort  on  a  tugboat  with 
Dr.  Bampney  and  Hamilton  Pleasants, 

now   a    colonel    on    General    Maury's 

staff,  Tempe  was  not  allowed  to  come, 
but  had  remained  at  Annandale  under  the  care  of 
Mrs.  Peyton  and  Pink. 

There  had  been  no  attempt  to  disguise  the  serious 
ness  of  her  brother's  wound,  and  it  was  with  forebod 
ings  of  the  worst  that  she  sat  in  the  bow  of  the  tug 
boat  watching  the  water  rush  away  on  either  side  as 
they  raced  down  the  bay  toward  the  fort.  Having 

291 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

heard  of  the  accident  at  the  last  moment  old  Dr. 
Bampney  had  insisted  upon  coming  with  her  and  she 
had  a  wretched  feeling  that  his  services  might  be  more 
needed  than  those  of  a  physician.  Hamilton  Pleas- 
ants  had  also  gone  with  Mary  Annan.  The  two  men, 
the  young  man  and  the  old  one,  tried  to  cheer  her  up 
as  they  sped  along,  but  with  so  indifferent  success 
that  they  finally  withdrew  and  left  her,  which  was  in 
accordance  with  her  own  preference.  The  trip  had 
been  made  rapidly  enough,  but  all  too  slowly  for  the 
woman's  anguished  heart. 

Oh,  the  cruel,  cruel  war!  It  had  robbed  her  of 
father  and  of  the  man  who  loved  her;  it  had  parted 
her  from  the  man  she  loved,  and  now  its  ensanguined 
hands  were  reached  out  to  take  from  her  the  last  who 
could  transmit  her  honored  name.  And  he  was  only 
a  boy,  a  child.  She  might  have  been  spared  this, 
surely.  Her  eyes  blurred  so  with  tears  that  she  could 
not  see,  yet  there  was  a  thought  in  all  her  anguish — 
she  hated  herself  for  its  lodgement  in  her  mind — that 
with  every  passing  hour  she  was  drawing  nearer  to 
Peyton ! 

As  they  swept  past  the  three  Confederate  gunboats 
they  saw  beyond  them,  between  them  and  the  channel, 
the  great  iron-clad  Tennessee  rising  above  the  gently 
tossing  water  like  some  black  volcanic  rock,  stern, 
sinister,  menacing,  impregnable.  The  light  smoke 
that  curled  around  the  top  of  the  tall  stack  indicated 
that  she  had  steam  up,  and  the  absence  of  the  usual 
deck  gear  would  have  told  a  practiced  eye  that  she  was 
stripped  for  action.  They  passed  close  to  her,  so 

292 


BETTER    IN    THE    MORNING 

close  that  Willis  Peyton  on  the  superstructure  recog 
nized  Mary  Annan  and  her  escorts  and  lifted  and  waved 
his  cap,  wondering  the  while  what  had  brought  them 
down  there. 

Far  to  the  southward  beyond  Fort  Morgan,  she 
could  see  the  ships  of  Farragut's  fleet  moving  to  and 
fro.  On  one  of  them  was  her  lover.  The  Confeder 
ates  were  not  ignorant  of  Farragut's  purpose  to  pass 
the  forts,  force  the  harbor  and  engage  the  Tennessee. 
Indeed  had  he  not  done  so,  daring  old  Admiral 
Buchanan,  who  commanded  this  mighty  war  monster 
and  the  Confederate  naval  forces,  had  decided  to  go 
outside  and  engage  him.  At  any  day  therefore  the 
fort,  the  gun-boats,  the  ram,  and  the  fleet,  now  looking 
so  peaceful,  bathed  in  the  warm  sunlight  of  the  late 
afternoon,  might  be  engaged  in  hurling  shot  and  shell 
upon  each  other  with  deadly  purpose  she  realized,  and 
he  might  be  among  those  who  suffered.  Was  he  to 
be  taken  from  her,  too? 

They  were  very  near  the  fort  now.  Presently  they 
drew  up  at  the  landing,  and  a  few  minutes'  toilsome 
walking  over  the  shifting  sandy  shore  brought  them  to 
the  cavernous  mouth  of  the  sally-port.  Challenged 
there,  they  waited  until  the  officer  of  the  guard  ap 
peared  and,  recognizing  them,  conducted  them  into 
the  fort  and  thence  into  the  brick  citadel  proper. 
There  General  Peyton  himself  met  them.  He  looked 
much  as  he  had  before  the  war.  A  little  older,  a  little 
whiter,  a  little  grimmer,  that  was  all. 

There  was  nothing  but  kindness  in  his  face  now, 
however.  He  had  always  loved  Mary  Annan.  She 

293 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

had  been  almost  like  a  daughter  to  him.  Now  that 
her  own  father  had  gone  he  felt  like  a  father  to  her. 
Indeed,  he  had  hoped  that  he  might  be  in  that  relation 
to  her  some  day,  before  his  boy  turned  his  back  upon 
the  South  and  broke  his  father's  heart.  Ah,  many  a 
day  had  the  old  man  mounted  the  rampart  and  stared 
at  the  ships,  thinking  of  that  lad  who  had  gone  away. 
General  Peyton  had  loved  Beverly  Annan  too,  for  his 
father's  and  sister's  sake  as  well  as  for  his  own,  and  it 
grieved  him  sorely  that  the  bright-faced,  proud- 
hearted  young  lad  should  be  stricken  down. 

"How  is  he?"  cried  the  girl,  as  soon  as  she  saw  the 
general. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"Is  there  no  chance,  no  hope?" 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  in  both  his 
hands,  "you  are  a  soldier's  sweetheart" — she  winced 
at  that — "and  you  are  a  soldier's  sister.  You  must 
bear  it!  The  poor  boy,  he  is  giving  his  all  for  the 
South  and  that  flag,"  he  added,  lifting  his  hat  as  he 
looked  up  at  the  tall  staff  with  the  white-starred  blue 
St.  Andrew  cross  stretched  over  its  red  rippling  folds. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  girl,  "the  war  is  taking  every 
thing  from  me,  everything!  But  where  is  he?" 

"In  the  casemate  out  yonder,"  answered  the  general, 
"we  have  fitted  it  up  as  a  hospital.  Colonel  Pleas- 
ants  and  Dr.  Bampney,  after  you  have  seen  him  I  wish 
you  would  come  over  to  my  quarters.  I  want  you  to 
stay  with  me  until " 

He  stopped  suddenly  with  a  significant  pause  which 
cut  the  girl  to  the  heart. 

294 


BETTER    IN    THE    MORNING 

"We  have  no  spare  room  in  the  fort  to  speak  of," 
continued  the  old  man,  quickly,  smiling  a  little,  "but 
we  can  fix  up  a  shakedown  for  you." 

"Thank  you,  General,  anything  will  do  for  me," 
said  Pleasants ;  "I  am  an  old  campaigner,  you  know." 

"Although  I  am  not  a  campaigner,"  said  Dr.  Bamp- 
ney,  "I  am  old  enough  for  anything  to  do  for  me  too. 
We'll  be  with  you  presently." 

The  casemate  was  not  an  unpleasant  place.  The 
low  arches  that  sprang  almost  from  the  floor  had  been 
freshly  whitewashed.  It  was  all  neat  and  clean,  and 
the  sunlight  poured  in  through  the  open  door.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  cots  in  it.  Over  in  one  corner  lay  a 
sick  soldier.  The  others  were  untenanted  save  for 
the  one  occupied  by  Beverly  Annan.  The  surgeon, 
just  then  coming  on  his  rounds,  stood  by  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  A  tall,  gaunt  artilleryman  sat  at  the  head 
fanning  the  patient.  The  boy  lay  with  his  eyes  closed, 
his  head  thrown  back,  motionless;  a  low  moan  broke 
from  his  lips  from  time  to  time.  He  was  as  white  as 
death  and  broken  with  suffering.  His  face  had 
that  thin  drawn  agonized  look  that  bespoke  anguish 
past  and  present,  and  that  drives  loving  hearts  mad, 
save  that  it  promises  rest  soon  in  the  future. 

Mary  Annan  and  the  two  men  walked  softly  over 
to  the  bed.  Something  rose  in  her  throat  and  seemed 
to  choke  her  as  she  looked  at  her  little  brother.  He 
had  been  so  bright,  so  handsome,  so  full  of  spirits,  and 
now  it  was  all  come  to  this.  Of  all  the  men  in  that 
garrison  her  boy,  her  boy  alone,  had  been  stricken 
down — the  lad  who  should  have  been  at  play  at  school. 

295 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Now  he  would  never  play  again.  The  impartial  touch 
of  war  and  death  had  been  laid  upon  him. 

The  girl  herself  was  almost  broken.  She  had  passed 
through  such  a  year,  nay,  such  a  four  years,  as  no  one 
had  ever  dreamed  could  come  upon  the  land.  There 
were  hollows  in  her  cheek  too,  and  sadness  in  her 
eye.  Her  heart  was  bowed  down  by  its  weight  of 
grief  and  anxiety,  but  her  spirit  was  still  undaunted. 
Again  she  typified  her  land.  Everything  had  gone 
against  her,  and  the  South,  but  with  grim,  terrible, 
unshakable  resolution  the  South  fought  on.  It  was 
in  the  last  ditch  now.  The  most  heedless  saw  the 
end.  Yet  not  one  thought  of  giving  up.  Amid  all 
the  other  cries  there  was  none  heard  for  quarter. 

As  she  leaned  over  the  cot,  in  spite  of  herself  a  sob 
broke  from  her  lips.  The  sufferer  heard  it  and  opened 
his  eyes. 

"Sister  Mary/'  he  whispered,  stifling  a  low  moan  like 
the  brave  little  soldier  he  was,  "don't  cry.  It  doesn't 
hurt  so  very  much — does  it,  Doctor?  And  he  says — 
he  says — I  will — be  better" — the  boy  bit  his  lip,  as  a 
paroxysm  of  pain  shook  his  body,  to  keep  from  cry 
ing  out — "better  in  the  morning.  Won't — I,  Doc 
tor?" 

"Yes,  my  boy,"  said  the  physician,  biting  his  own 
lip  in  turn,  "I  hope  so.  I  think  so.  I  am  sure  of 
it." 

"Who  is  that  with  you?  I  can't  see  very well, 

Sister  Mary." 

"It's  Colonel  Pleasants  and  Dr.  Bampney." 

"Gentlemen,"  said  the  lad — and  what  a  gentleman 
296 


BETTER    IN    THE    MORNING 

he  was  himself,  the  two  men  thought — "I'm  glad  to 
see  you.  You  will — excuse  me  for — not — getting 
up?  It — was  good — of  you — to  come  down  here — 
to  see  me.  Where — is  father,  Mary?"  he  said  sud 
denly,  with  a  little  bewildered  stare.  "I — I — want 
him.  Why  doesn't  he — come  too?" 

The  girl  looked  at  the  two  men  in  hopeless  agony. 
The  old  clergyman  knelt  down  by  the  boy's  bedside 
and  took  his  hand  in  both  his  own. 

"You  will  have  your  father  in  the  morning,  my 
son,"  he  said,  softly,  understanding,  as  they  all  did,  the 
doctor's  meaning. 

"Is  that  you,  Dr.  Bampney?  Father — I  will  see 
him — in  the  morning.  'Our  Father' — that  is  what 
you  taught  me — when  I  was  a  boy — in  your  Sunday- 
school." 

"Yes,  my  lad,"  said  the  old  man,  "  'Our  Father:'  " 

"Say  it,  Doctor." 

The  two  voices,  the  old  one  leading,  the  other  feebly 
following,  softly  uttered  the  eternal  prayer.  Pleas- 
ants  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  The  sick  soldier 
in  the  corner  lifted  himself  upon  his  elbow  and  listened; 
the  artilleryman  rose  and  gave  place  to  the  woman,  and 
considerately  left  the  casemate,  and  poor  Mary  Annan 
knelt,  too,  and  buried  her  head  in  the  bed-clothes  by 
her  brother's  side. 

"That's  a — good  prayer,  Doctor,"  said  the  boy, 
after  a  long  silence.  "Oh,  how — this — hurts  me! 
But— I— will— be  better— soon.  Won't— I  ?" 

"Yes,  my  boy,  better  soon." 

"I  must  bear  it — too — mustn't  I — because  I — am 
297 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

— a  soldier — a — man — an — Annan? — bear  it — for  the 
honor — of  the  South — for — the  cause — I  love?  Don't 
cry,  Sister  Mary.  It  will — be  all — right  in  the — 
morning." 

He  lifted  his  hand  weakly  and  dropped  it  on  her 
bowed  head. 

"Annan,"  said  the  doctor,  coming  into  the  room, 
"here  is  the  general  coming  to  see  you." 

"Beverly,  my  boy,"  said  General  Peyton,  looking 
down  at  him  gravely  and  tenderly — it  might  have  been 
his  own  son  he  looked  upon — "how  do  you  feel  now?" 

"Much  the  same,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  making  a  piti 
ful  effort  to  salute,  "it's  a  great — honor  for — the — 
general  to  come — visit  a  private,  sir." 

There  was  that  in  that  casemate  that  levelled  all 
distinctions  of  rank. 

"We  are  not  general  and  private  now,  lad.  You 
are  just  the  son  of  my  dear  old  friend.  I  have  come 
to  say  good — "  the  general  hesitated  a  moment, 
"good-night  to  you." 

"I  am  glad — it  isn't  good — by,  sir.  I — I  don't 
want — to  die  now.  I  want  to — live  and  do  more  for 
the  South.  If  I'd  only — got  my  wound — in  battle 
when  I — was  doing  something." 

"Never  mind,  my  boy,"  said  the  old  man,  "you  are 
wounded  under  your  flag,  in  the  service  of  your 
country.  Nothing  could  be  more  honorable." 

"Thank  you,  sir.  Oh,  Doctor — can't  you  give — me 
something  so — that  I  can  get  a — little  sleep?  It — 
hurts  so!  And — it  hurts  Sister  Mary — to  see  me 
suffer." 

298 


BETTER    IN    THE    MORNING 

"I  will  give  you  something,"  said  the  doctor,  turn 
ing  away,  "and  perhaps  you  can  sleep." 

"Good-night,  General." 

The  old  general  went  to  the  head  of  the  bed,  hesi 
tated  a  moment,  stooped  down  and  pressed  his  lips 
upon  the  boy's  brow. 

"Good-night,  my  boy,  and  God  bless  you." 

Followed  by  Pleasants,  he  walked  slowly  and  sadly 
through  the  door  and  stood  outside  the  casemate  lis 
tening. 

"Now,  Annan,"  said  the  doctor,  coming  back, 
"drink  this,  and  then  perhaps  you  can  get  a  little 
sleep." 

"You  will — stay  with — me,  Sister  Mary?  And  you, 
too,  Dr.  Bampney?"  said  the  boy,  as  he  quaffed  the 
draught. 

"We  will  not  leave  you,"  said  the  clergyman, 
quietly. 

"Never  again,"  added  Mary,  brokenly. 

"You  can't  say  that — Sister  Mary.  Because — 
when  I — am  well — I  must  go  on  duty — once  more." 

"Yes,  when  you  are  well." 

"Sister  Mary,"  said  the  boy,  after  a  pause,  "  won't 
you  sing  me  something?" 

With  her  breaking  heart,  she  did  not  think  she 
could  frame  a  note,  yet  what  could  she  do  but  try? 

"What  do  you  wish  me  to  sing,  Beverly,  dear?" 

"Sing  me — some  of  the  songs — you  used — to  sing." 

"Which  one?" 

"The  'Mocking-Bird.'  " 

God,  who  had  given  her  the  voice,  gave  her  the 
299 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

power  to  use  it.  How  she  did  it  she  could  not  tell. 
Kneeling  there  by  the  bed,  she  sang  the  old  song,  the 
song  that  brought  up  the  days  of  the  past;  the  song 
of  the  man  who  had  loved  her  and  was  gone — who  had 
died  on  the  hills  of  Chickamauga — and  the  other  man 
she  loved  on  the  ship  beneath  the  alien  flag.  It 
brought  back  days  of  happiness  and  hours  of  joy,  sweet 
dreams  of  the  past.  Low  and  clear  and  sweet  as  the 
notes  of  the  bird  itself  the  song  rose  in  the  air.  Out 
side  the  casemate  the  two  officers  listened.  The  sentry 
on  the  ramparts  stopped  entranced.  The  men  of  the 
garrison,  led  by  the  artilleryman,  crowded  nearer,  lis 
tening  with  beating  hearts.  Hats  were  removed  from 
heads,  and  heads  were  bowed  as  the  music  rose  and 
fell.  As  the  last  note  died  away  the  trumpet  from 
the  ramparts  sounded  retreat  call  and  the  colors  came 
drooping  gently  down  the  staff. 

Within  the  casemate  all  was  silent. 

"That's  a  good  song/'  said  Beverly,  faintly,  at  last. 
"It  almost  makes — me  forget — the  pain.  Sing  more." 

"A  hymn  this  time,  Beverly?" 

"Yes,  this  time — a  hymn." 

"What  shall  it  be?" 

"  'My  faith  looks  up  to  Thee/  That's  a  good- 
hymn — Doctor — for  a  soldier." 

"Yes,  it's  a  good  one  for  anybody,  Beverly." 

There  are  harder  things  than  fighting  battles,  things 
that  women  have  to  do.  To  sing  that  hymn,  to  keep 
the  throat  clear,  and  the  heart  down,  to  sing  in  the 
face  of  death  itself,  with  anguish  gnawing  at  the  soul 
— to  lead  a  charge,  to  die  on  a  field,  were  child's  play 

300 


BETTER    IN    THE    MORNING 

by  it.  The  boy  listened  with  closed  eyes  and  com 
pressed  lips.  The  woman  sang  with  every  fibre  in  her 
being  vibrating  with  pain  and  grief,  with  despair  ac 
companying  the  notes,  yet  she  never  stopped  nor  fal 
tered,  her  voice  never  broke.  Honor  and  duty  bade 
her  sing,  and  she  inflexibly  followed  their  behests. 

Rich  and  full  rose  the  rare  contralto  voice  with  its 
deep  note  of  passion.  Mary  Annan  had  never  sung  so 
well  before,  and  she  would  never  sing  so  well  again, 
perhaps.  The  words  and  music  of  the  mighty  hymn 
rolled  through  the  casemate  and  out  through  the 
citadel  of  the  fort,  where  the  officers  and  men,  wet- 
eyed,  listened  in  the  twilight : 

"  When  ends  life's  transient  dream, 
When  death's  cold,  sullen  stream 

Shall  o'er  me  roll ; 
Blest  Saviour,  then,  in  love, 
Fear  and  distrust  remove  ; 
O,  bear  me  safe  above, — 

A  ransomed  soul." 

How  still  he  lay,  she  thought,  as  she  looked  down 
upon  him — how  very  still!  Was  it  over?  Had  so 
ended  life's  transient  dream  for  him?  Not  yet,  O 
pitiful  God,  please  not  yet !  She  lifted  her  hand  to  her 
throat.  No,  he  was  speaking! 

"Thank  you,"  he  murmured,  rousing  himself  a  little, 
"I  won't  ask — you  to — sing  any  more — Sister  Mary. 
You  must  be — tired." 

"I  will  sing  more  if  you  want  me  to,  brother." 

"No,  I'm — going — to  sleep  now,"  he  gasped  out. 
"Do  you  remember  how  mother — used  to  have  us — 

301 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

kneel — at  her — knee  every  night?  I  haven't — forgot 
ten — that  prayer.  I  always  say  it.  We'll  all — say  it. 
And — then — I'll  go — to — sleep  and  be — better— "in 
the  morning." 

"Now  I — lay — me — down  to — sleep.  I  pray — the 
—Lord—" 

The  old  doctor  finished  the  prayer  alone  in  the 
silence.  The  opiate  the  surgeon  had  given  the  boy  had 
at  last  taken  effect,  and  the  sufferer  drifted  out  to 
sleep.  He  would  be  better  in  the  morning. 

Ah,  how  many  sufferers  have  been  cheered  through 
long  nights  of  pain  by  that  sad,  elusive  hope — better  in 
the  morning ! 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 


THE  FLEET  GETS  UNDER  WAY 

IX  bells  in  the  mid-watch,  sir,"  said  the 
marine  orderly,  tapping  deferentially 
at  the  door  of  the  admiral's  sleeping- 
room,  while  to  the  accompaniment  of 
their  shrill  whistles  the  boatswain  and 
his  mates  were  piping,  "Up  all  ham 
mocks  !" 

"I  am  awake,  Orderly.     What  sort 
of  a  morning  is  it?" 

"It's  been  cloudy  and  squally,  but  it 
bids  fair  to  break  clear  now,  sir." 
"How's  the  wind?" 
"Light  from  the  sou'-west,  sir." 
"Good !    Send  Mr.  Watson  and  Mr. 
Peyton  to  me;   I   would  like  to  see 
them  in  my  cabin  as  soon  as  I  am  dressed.    Is  Cap 
tain  Dray  ton  up?" 
"Yes,  sir." 

"Give  him  my  compliments  and  ask  him  to  come 
here  too ;  say  in  about  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  all." 
The  admiral,  who  had  risen  as  the  orderly  departed, 
dressed  himself  with  deliberate  care.  Like  most  of  the 
old-fashioned  fighting  captains  whom  he  resembled  in 
many  respects,  he  prided  himself  on  wearing  full  uni- 

303 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

form  when  going  into  action  and  consequently  he  at 
tired  himself  in  his  best.  He  buckled  on  his  sword, 
which  had  been  given  him  by  an  old  friend,  and  which 
was  his  almost  constant  companion.  He  invariably 
wore  it  when  on  duty.  Just  as  he  completed  his  care 
ful  preparations,  which  included  a  long  and  fervent 
petition  to  Almighty  God  for  the  success  of  the 
dangerous  undertaking  he  was  about  to  commence, 
Drayton,  followed  by  the  two  lieutenants,  and  Dr. 
Palmer,  the  fleet-surgeon,  came  down  into  the  dimly 
lighted  cabin. 

"Good-morning,  Admiral." 

"Good-morning,  Captain  Drayton.  Good-morn 
ing,  gentlemen.  The  tide  will  be  at  full  flood  in  a  few 
hours  and  we'll  carry  out  the  program.  You  may 
call  all  hands  and  get  the  ships  lashed  together,  sir." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

"And,  Watson,  you  will  signal  the  fleet  to  couple 
up  and  prepare  for  action." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir." 

"The  wind  is  sou'westerly,  so  the  orderly  reports, 
Drayton?" 

"Yes,  sir,  rather  light  now,  but  gives  promise  of 
growing  heavier." 

"It's  lucky  for  us  that  the  wind  blows  that  way, 
for  it  will  carry  the  smoke  over  Morgan  and  make  it 
difficult  for  them  to  see  us." 

"And  not  obscure  our  view  of  them  either,  sir?" 

"Certainly  not.  The  gunner  who  couldn't  hit  a 
mark  that  bulks  up  like  Fort  Morgan  had  better  go 
and  be  a  haymaker !" 

304 


THE    FLEET    GETS    UNDER    WAY 

"Admiral,  you  won't  fail  to  call  upon  me  for  any 
service  in  case  the  enemy  don't  give  the  medical  corps 
work  to  do?"  asked  Dr.  Palmer. 

"My  dear  Palmer,  I  expect  to  call  upon  you  and 
every  man  for  the  best  that  is  in  him  this  day.  But 
don't  fear  that  you  won't  have  plenty  to  do  in  your 
own  line.  We'll  not  get  through  scathless,  by  any 
means,  more's  the  pity." 

"But  in  case  we  don't  get  through  at  all,  sir?"  asked 
the  surgeon. 

"I  do  not  contemplate  such  a  possibility,  sir.  We 
shall  get  through;  we  must,  we  will !  Come  in,"  called 
the  admiral,  in  answer  to  another  knock.  "Ah,  Mr. 
Heginbotham,  what  is  it?"  he  asked  a  young  officer 
who  presented  himself. 

"Mr.  Kimberly  bade  me  report  that  the  Metacomet 
is  coming  alongside,  sir." 

"Quick  work.     What  time  is  it?  " 

"About  eight  bells,  sir,"  answered  the  youngster, 
and  at  the  instant  the  mellow  couplets  rang  out  for 
ward. 

"So  it  is.     How's  the  weather  now?" 

"Fine,  sir,  and  the  wind  is  freshening,"  continued  the 
young  man,  eagerly. 

"Very  good,  indeed,  and  are  the  other  ships  at 
work?" 

"All  that  we  can  see,  sir." 

"Very  well,  Mr.  Heginbotham,  you  can  go  on  deck, 


sir." 


"Admiral,"  said  Drayton,  as  the  ensign  saluted  and 
ran  up  through  the  hatchway,  "I  shall  go  on  deck  and 

305 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

oversee  the  lashing  if  you  have  nothing  further  for 
me  to  do." 

"Do  so,  Draytoa;  I'll  see  you  presently." 

"And  I'll  go  below  to  the  sick  bay,"  said  Palmer. 

"Very  well,  you'll  both  join  me  in  a  cup  of  coffee, 
and  my  steward  will  knock  up  a  bit  of  breakfast  for  us, 
before  we  get  under  way.  Now,  Mr.  Peyton,  I  want 
to  speak  to  you  a  few  moments  about  the  harbor.  I 
wish  to  get  a  clearer  idea  of  the  situation  myself,  sir. 
In  case  anything  happens  to  the  pilot  or  you — which 
God  forbid — I  might  have  to  carry  the  Hartford  in 
myself,  you  know." 

For  some  time  the  two  officers  pored  over  the  chart 
in  the  dim  light,  and  after  the  admiral  had  thoroughly 
mastered  all  its  details — indeed,  much  previous  study 
had  made  him  thoroughly  familiar  with  it — Peyton  re 
turned  to  his  duties  on  deck,  whither  the  admiral  pres 
ently  followed  him. 

Apparently  the  ship  was  the  scene  of  busy  confusion 
in  the  darkness  preceding  the  dawn,  out  of  which  order 
was  being  rapidly  evoked  by  the  systematic  efforts  of 
the  officers  and  the  zealous  work  of  the  seamen.  The 
Metacomet  was  close  alongside  and  the  lashings  to 
secure  her  to  the  Hartford  were  being  rapidly  and  care 
fully  passed.  Below  in  the  engine  and  fire  rooms 
things  were  being  steadily  put  in  an  equal  state  of 
preparation.  The  admiral's  sailing  orders  indicated  a 
slow  passage,  but  the  moment  when  all  steam  and  full 
speed  would  be  sorely  needed  might  occur  at  any  time, 
and  the  men  of  the  engineer  division  were  determined 
to  be  in  readiness  for  any  demand  or  any  emergency. 

306 


THE    FLEET    GETS    UNDER    WAY 

In  some  respects  theirs  were  the  most  dangerous  sta 
tions  in  the  ship.  They  would  feel  the  first  and  most 
deadly  effect  from  a  torpedo,  a  shell  in  a  boiler  meant 
death  to  them,  and  the  horrible  death  of  Marsyas,  at 
that.  It  was  desperately  hot  below  that  August  morn 
ing  in  the  far  South,  and  it  would  be  hotter  as  the  day 
drew  on  and  they  got  into  action.  What  of  that? 
They  went  about  their  duties  as  cheerfully  as  the  gay 
est  light-yard  men. 

Everything  that  skill  and  experience  could  dictate 
had  already  been  done  to  protect  the  more  vulnerable 
and  vital  parts  of  the  Hartford  and  the  other  vessels 
of  the  fleet.  The  boilers  and  engines  were  sheltered 
by  chains  stoppered  along  the  sides  of  the  ships,  in 
some  cases  by  barricades  of  sand  in  bags.  The  light 
spars  and  top-gallant  masts  had  been  sent  down. 
Some  of  the  ships  had  even  struck  their  top-masts  and 
went  in  with  only  the  lower  masts  standing,  although 
the  Hartford  and  the  Brooklyn  both  carried  their  top 
masts  through  the  action.  The  starboard  boats  had 
been  left  behind  or  were  towed  on  the  port  side,  and 
everything  that  ingenuity  or  experience  suggested  had 
been  done  by  the  different  captains  to  render  their 
ships  immune  to  the  tremendous  fire  to  be  expected 
from  formidable  Fort  Morgan  and  the  Confederate 
squadron. 

The  morale  of  the  flag-ship  and  of  the  fleet  in  general 
was  simply  superb.  The  men  laughed  and  joked  with 
each  other  as  they  went  about  their  appointed  duties. 
They  were  completely  oblivious  to  any  danger  to  them 
selves  or  their  ships  in  the  approaching  battle.  And  a 

307 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

doubt  of  their  success  never  entered  their  minds.  The 
admiral  had  carried  them  through  many  a  scrape,  and 
he  would  get  them  through  this  one  somehow.  The 
old  Hartford  and  her  men  had  been  in  too  many 
battles  to  fail  now.  They  would  get  battered  up  a  bit, 
doubtless,  but  they  would  win  out  in  the  end,  never 
fear.  The  gun  was  not  mounted,  the  ship  did  not 
float,  that  could  sink  that  Hartford  with  Farragut 
aboard. 

Shortly  before  three  bells  in  the  morning  watch,  or 
half  after  five,  the  admiral,  accompanied  by  Drayton 
and  Palmer,  went  below  to  his  cabin  for  a  light  break 
fast.  As  the  three  men  stood  in  the  dark  cabin, 
lighted  by  a  few  candles — for  although  the  sun  had 
just  risen  it  was  not  yet  light  enough  below  decks 
to  see  by — the  admiral,  sipping  a  cup  of  tea,  a  favor 
ite  beverage  of  his,  remarked,  abruptly: 

"Drayton,  I  am  sure  that  I  have  made  a  serious  mis 
take  in  giving  way  to  the  representations  of  you  fel 
lows  and  allowing  the  Brooklyn  to  go  in  first.  It's  not 
right.  That's  the  place  of  the  commander-in-chief — 
in  the  lead." 

"Now,  Admiral,"  said  Drayton,  remonstrating 
affectionately,  "you  know  we  settled  all  that  last  night, 
and  you  gave  way  to  our  unanimous  judgment.  The 
Brooklynhas  four  chase-guns  and  an  apparatus  for  pick 
ing  up  torpedoes.  I  feel  sure  we  are  right,  and  I 
beg  of  you  not  to  think  of  changing  the  order  now." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  admiral,  unconvinced.  "I 
don't  doubt  that  I  will  get  to  the  front  somehow. 
Meanwhile,  have  it  your  own  way." 

308 


THE    FLEET    GETS    UNDER    WAY 

"We  have  no  fear  of  your  not  getting  to  the  front, 
Admiral,"  said  Drayton,  smiling.  "It  isn't  that.  You 
know  the  fort  and  the  gun-boats  and  the  ram  will  all 
concentrate  upon  the  Hartford,  thinking  to  crush  or 
sink  you  and  then  have  the  rest  of  us  at  their  mercy." 

"And  they'll  make  a  mistake  there.  They  may  sink 
me,  but  they  will  find  a  dozen  captains  left,  each  one 
good  enough  to  lead  a  fleet.  Wasn't  it  Nelson  who 
said  at  Aboukir  that  he  had  the  good  fortune  to  com 
mand  a  band  of  brothers?  Well,  if  he  hadn't  said  that 
before  I  would  say  it  now.  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Dray- 
ton,  I  have  been  an  officer  of  the  navy  for  fifty  years. 
I  have  seen  and  known  all  the  great  captains  of  1812, 
and  have  met  most  of  the  great  officers  of  the  Old 
World  navies,  and  I  never  came  in  contact  with  a 
better  set  of  fellows  than  these  of  mine  are.  They 
are  the  peers  of  any  men  who  ever  faced  a  gale  or 
fought  a  ship.  You  know  I  get  melancholy  when  I 
think  of  them  sometimes.  The  age  of  sails  is  going; 
it  is  almost  gone.  The  ships  of  the  future  will  be  like 
that  black  monster  Old  Buck  has  under  him,  and  over 
him.  Your  naval  officer  after  a  while  will  be  an  en 
gineer,  a  mechanic,  anything  but  a  sailor.  I  am  old- 
fashioned,  I  suppose,  but  I  cling  to  mast  and  yard, 
to  rope  and  canvas.  Give  me  the  wooden  deck,  the 
wooden  keel,  beneath  my  feet!  I  feel  lonesome  and 
uneasy  with  nothing  but  iron  between  me  and  Davy 
Jones.  This  is  the  last  effort  of  the  wooden  fleet,  I 
think.  Well,  we'll  make  it  a  good  one." 

"Signals  from  all  the  ships  indicate  that  everything 
is  ready,  sir,"  said  Watson,  coming  in  and  saluting. 

309 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Ah,  very  good.  I  knew,  of  course,  that  they  would 
be,  but  it  is  a  relief  to  find  things  are  all  right.  There 
is  nothing  I  so  much  dread  as  a  signal  at  the  last  mo 
ment  that  some  ship  of  my  fleet,  upon  which  I  de 
pended,  has  gone  wrong.  Are  the  monitors  ready, 
Watson?" 

"Yes,  sir,  all  ready." 

"Well,  that  relieves  me  more.  I  haven't  a  bit  of 
faith  in  those  iron  pots.  They  are  always  breaking 
down  or  doing  the  unexpected." 

"They  are  good  hammers,  though,  Admiral,"  said 
Palmer. 

"Yes,  that  they  are,  and  I  expect  them  to  do  a  great 
deal  of  it  this  morning.  Well,  Drayton,  I  suppose  we 
may  as  well  get  under  way,"  said  the  admiral,  quietly, 
going  on  deck,  whither  the  others  followed  him  at 
once. 

As  the  shrill  whistles  and  calls  of  the  boatswains 
rang  through  the  fleet  the  cables  were  slipped  to  the 
buoys,  the  engines  started,  the  screws  began  to  revolve, 
and  the  ships  gathered  way  in  the  water. 

And  this  was  the  quiet  manner  in  which  one  of  the 
greatest  naval  battles  of  modern  times  was  begun. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 


T 


"AFTER  YOU,  PILOT!" 

HE  day  broke  brilliantly  clear  and  fair 
as  the  Brooklyn  and  Octorora  got 
under  way  at  5  .35,  followed  five  min 
utes  later  by  the  Hartford  and  the 
Metacomet  and  in  succession  by  all  the 
ships  which  were  to  attempt  the 
passage.  The  couples  of  ships  were 
about  a  cable's  length  apart  at  the 
start.  The  fleet  moved  slowly — for 
the  admiral's  orders  had  been  for  low 
steam  and  slow  speed — and  started 
for  the  bar  off  the  main  ship  channel. 
At  the  same  time  the  smaller  gun 
boats  headed  up  to  the  northeast  with 
the  intention  of  engaging  the  fort 
from  its  south  side,  so  that  if  possible 
they  could  keep  down  its  fire  upon  the  main  fleet. 

The  national  colors,  the  largest-sized  fighting  en 
signs,  flew  from  every  masthead,  except  where  from 
the  mizzen  of  the  Hartford  the  blue  flag  of  the  ad 
miral,  with  its  two  white  stars,  fluttered  in  the  breeze. 
The  black  ships  came  on  in  grim,  threatening  silence, 
the  only  spots  of  color  about  them  being  the  red  and 
blue  of  the  flags,  already  lighting  and  gleaming  in  the 
rising  sunlight. 

A  few  minutes  after  six  o'clock  the  Brooklyn  and  the 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Hartford  crossed  the  bar  and  were  fairly  in  the  chan 
nel.  Volumes  of  black  smoke  pouring  from  the 
smoke-stacks  of  the  squat,  ugly  monitors  lumbering 
from  the  cove  behind  Sand  Island,  far  ahead  of  them, 
indicated  that  these  formidable  fighting  machines  were 
ready  for  action.  At  half  after  six  the  monitors  were 
well  in  the  channel,  heading  up  to  the  fort,  distant 
from  them  about  two  miles.  At  6 .43  the  head  of  the 
fleet  came  abreast  Sand  Island  Light,  three  miles  from 
the  fort.  There  was  a  delay  here  of  some  ten  minutes, 
to  enable  the  fleet  to  close  up  within  short  supporting 
distance,  and  at  6 .55  the  order  to  advance  once  more 
was  given. 

The  vessels  were  ranging  well  up  by  this  time  in 
a  bow  and  quarter-line,  that  is,  with  the  van  ship,  the 
Brooklyn,  a  little  off  the  port  bow  of  the  next  in  line,  the 
Hartford,  with  the  Richmond  a  little  on  the  starboard 
quarter  of  the  flag-ship  and  so  on,  in  order  that  the 
chase-guns  of  all  the  ships  might  bear  on  the  fort  and 
there  would  be  no  danger  of  one  ship  firing  into  an 
other. 

Meanwhile,  at  6.47,  the  actual  battle  had  begun. 
Two  long  lines  of  light  bursting  into  balloons  of  flame- 
shot  smoke  leaped  from  the  huge  muzzles  of  the  fifteen- 
inch  guns  of  the  Tecumseh  in  the  lead,  and  the  shells 
were  seen  to  burst  over  Fort  Morgan.  The  roar  of  the 
discharge,  startling  the  stillness  of  the  summer  morn, 
carried  far  down  the  slowly  advancing  line,  and  was 
heard  even  in  the  holds  of  the  ships,  by  the  surgeons 
in  the  cockpits,  the  gunners'  mates  of  the  powder 
divisions,  the  engineers  at  the  engines,  and  the  men  in 

312 


"AFTER    YOU,    PILOT!" 

the  hot  depths  of  the  fire-rooms.  Instantly  through 
the  fleet,  as  if  in  answer  to  a  signal,  might  be  heard  the 
rattle  of  the  drums  calling  the  men  to  quarters,  the  last 
final  preparation  for  action. 

As  the  welcome  notes  rolled  about  the  decks  the 
eager,  ready  men  leaped  to  their  stations.  As  the 
orders  "Cast  loose  and  provide!"  "Man  the  star 
board  battery!"  "Run  in!"  "Load!"  rang  out,  the 
sea  lashings  of  the  massive  guns  were  cast  off  by  the 
willing  hands,  they  were  run  in,  loaded  with  charges 
which  the  efficient  powder  division  had  broken  out 
from  the  magazines,  and  then  run  out  and  a  turn  taken 
with  the  training  tackles  to  secure  them.  The  con 
fusion,  or  apparent  confusion,  attendant  upon  the  ulti 
mate  preparations  of  the  ship  for  the  deadly  occasion, 
subsided  and  in  silence  broken  by  a  subdued  word 
here  and  there  by  the  officers,  by  the  musical  calls  of 
the  leadsmen  in  the  chains  calmly  indicating  the  depth 
of  the  shoaling  water,  and  by  the  throbbing  beat  of  the 
engines  as  with  screw  or  paddle  wheel  they  were  being 
urged  gently  forward,  the  ships  swept  steadily  in.  The 
men,  like  the  ships,  were  cleared  for  action.  Many  of 
them  chose  to  fight  stripped  to  the  waist,  naked,  ex 
cept  for  a  pair  of  trousers. 

The  monitors,  which  had  been  rolling  ahead,  were 
almost  abreast  the  fort  now.  The  ships,  which  had 
moved  faster,  were  close  at  hand.  At  six  minutes 
after  seven  o'clock  the  watchers  on  the  Hartford  saw 
a  puff  of  smoke  rise  from  the  parapet  of  the  fort,  fol 
lowed  a  few  minutes  after  by  the  roar  of  a  heavy  gun. 
In  another  moment  the  fort  was  covered  with  smoke, 

313 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

out  of  which  jets  of  flame  darted,  and  shell  began  to 
scream  down  toward  the  ships.  At  the  same  time 
from  the  lee  of  the  fort  the  black  Tennessee  came  shov 
ing  her  nose  athwart  the  channel  just  where  the  open 
ing  had  been  left  for  the  passage  of  the  blockade  run 
ners.  Following  her  were  three  saucy  gun-boats,  the 
Morgan,  the  Gaines,  and  the  Selma.  They  took  posi 
tion  in  line  across  the  channel  in  excellent  position 
for  raking  the  ships  coming  up  the  channel  toward  the 
fort. 

Craven,  in  the  Tecumseh,  caught  sight  of  the  Ten 
nessee.  Disdaining  the  heavy  fire  of  the  fort  of  which 
he  was  now  abreast,  which  was  concentrated  upon  him 
for  the  time  being,  he  loaded  his  fifteen-inch  guns  with 
steel  shot  and  the  heaviest  charge  of  powder  then  per 
mitted,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  grapple  with  the  iron 
clad.  Meanwhile  the  other  three  monitors,  as  close  to 
it  as  they  could  get,  were  firing  furiously  upon  the  fort. 
At  seven  minutes  after  seven  the  Brooklyn  opened  fire 
with  her  chase-guns.  Feur  minutes  later  the  Hartford 
joined  in  the  battle  with  hers,  none  of  the  broadside 
guns  as  yet  bearing. 

The  ships  were  well  up  now  and  coming  along 
grandly  in  spite  of  the  fire  from  the  fort,  which  was 
growing  sharper  and  more  severe  as  the  gunners  got 
the  range.  At  twenty  minutes  after  seven  the  Brook 
rifles  on  the  Tennessee  and  the  rifled  thirty-twos  on  the 
gun-boats  added  their  voices  to  the  hellish  clamor. 
The  line  had  become  lengthened  out  a  little  by  this 
time,  and  the  leading  ships  slowed  down  once  more  to 
Jet  the  rear  vessels  close  up  again. 


"AFTER    YOU,    PILOT!" 

At  7 .35  the  Brooklyn  was  fairly  abreast  of  the  fort. 
Her  heavy  broadsides  now  bore  square  upon  it,  and  the 
guns  loaded  with  grape,  shrapnel,  and  shell,  the  fuses 
cut  short,  the  range  not  more  than  three  hundred 
yards,  poured  in  broadside  after  broadside  in  rapid 
succession,  which  was  returned  with  splendid  spirit  15] 
the  garrison,  especially  by  the  water  battery,  masking 
the  northwest  curtain  between  the  channel  bastions.1 
A  few  moments  after  the  Hartford,  now  close  aboard 
the  Brooklyn,  also  got  the  fort  abeam  under  her  guns, 
and  by  mighty  broadsides  almost  cleared  the  batteries. ' 

The  Confederates  could  not  maintain  their  stations 
at  the  barbette  guns  in  such  a  rain  of  shot  as  that;  they 
were  forced  to  seek  shelter  between  the  broadsides, 
and  their  own  fire  abated  perceptibly.  But  now  the 
leading  ships  were  within  easy  range  of  the  guns  of  the 
Tennessee  and  the  gun-boats  dead  ahead.  The  Union 
fleet  made  a  splendid  target,  and  the  fire  of  Buchan 
an's  gun-boats,  for  the  most  part  effectively  handled 
and  well  delivered,  was  fearfully  effective.  Except 
for  a  few  light  chase-guns  the  ships  could  make  no 
reply.  The  fire  of  the  gun-boats  was  much  more 
destructive  than  that  of  the  fort  at  this  juncture. 

Meanwhile  at  the  head  of  the  line  the  Tecumseh  was 
making  for  the  Tennessee.  Craven's  orders,  as  were 
the  orders  of  all  the  other  captains,  had  been  to  pass 
to  the  eastward  of  the  easternmost  buoy  through  the 
clear  channel  right  under  the  guns  of  the  fort.  But 
with  a  fine  tactical  apprehension  of  the  situation  on 
the  part  of  Admiral  Buchanan,  the  Tennessee  had 
moved  over  now  so  that  she  was  stationed  just  be- 

315 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

hind  the  line  of  torpedoes.  To  get  at  her  the 
Tecumseh  would  have  to  cross  the  line,  or  by  going 
to  the  east  of  the  buoy  find  herself  in  a  very  dangerous 
as  well  as  disadvantageous  position.  By  Craven's  in 
itiative,  therefore,  the  orders  were  disregarded  and  the 
Tecumseh  dashed  straight  for  the  Tennessee.  The 
heart  of  Craven  was  bent  upon  grappling  with  the 
iron  monster  toward  which  he  was  now  heading.  He 
believed  that  he  was  more  than  a  match  for  her,  and  he 
determined  to  try  it.  Buchanan  was  not  less  willing 
and  anxious  for  the  test.  There  would  be  no  in 
decisive  Monitor  and  Merrimac  fight  about  this  action. 

The  leading  ships  were  now  fully  engaged,  and  the 
roar  of  the  battle  was  tremendous.  The  water  be 
tween  the  ships  and  the  fort  was  whipped  into  foam 
by  the  shot.  Clouds  of  smoke  and  flame  hung  over 
the  scene,  and  the  fort  itself  looked  like  a  volcano  in 
eruption. 

Aft  on  the  poop-deck  of  the  Hartford  stood  Dray- 
ton,  magnificent  officer  that  he  was,  cool,  calm,  and 
collected,  watching  the  ship.  By  him  was  Watson, 
the  flag  lieutenant,  and  Ensign  Brownell,  calmly  tak 
ing  notes  of  the  action.  The  admiral  had  gone  for 
ward  and  climbed  up  on  the  sheer  poles  of  the  port 
main-rigging  in  order  better  to  see  the  movements  of 
his  ships.  As  the  smoke  of  the  battle  settled  over  the 
bay  he  unconsciously  ascended  ratline  by  ratline,  in 
order  to  rise  above  it  and  still  be  able  to  see  his  fleet. 
Presently  he  found  himself  just  below  the  futtock 
shrouds  beneath  the  top.  There  he  stopped.  He 
could  communicate  with  Freeman,  the  pilot,  in  the 

316 


"AFTER    YOU,    PILOT!" 

top  above  him,  who  was  conning  the  ship  through  a 
speaking-tube  to  the  deck,  and  directing  the  move 
ments  of  the  Metacomet  by  motioning  to  Lieutenant- 
Commander  Jouett,  her  captain,  who  stood  on  the 
starboard  paddle-box  not  far  away.  Immediately  be 
neath  the  admiral  Peyton  was  stationed  ready  to  take 
his  orders,  or  to  take  Freeman's  place  and  lead  the 
ships  in  in  case  the  pilot  became  disabled. 

Watson,  following  the  admiral  with  attentive  eyes, 
noticed  his  extraordinary  position,  and,  realizing  that 
even  a  slight  wound  might  cause  him  to  lose  his  bal 
ance  and  fall  to  the  deck,  sent  a  quarter-master, 
Knowles,  up  the  rigging  with  a  line,  directing  him  to 
pass  it  around  the  admiral  and  secure  it  to  the  shrouds, 
so  that  if  he  were  wounded  he  would  have  some  sup 
port  which  would  prevent  him  from  receiving  a  fall  to 
the  deck,  a  dangerous  distance  below  him,  or  maybe 
going  overboard.  When  the  man  explained  his  er 
rand  the  admiral  permitted  him  to  take  a  couple  of 
turns  with  the  bight  of  the  rope  around  his  body  and 
make  the  ends  fast  to  the  rigging. 

The  action  had  now  become  general.  The  garrison 
of  the  fort,  driven  to  shelter  by  each  broadside,  again 
and  again  gallantly  returned  to  their  batteries  and  re 
opened  fire.  Everything  seemed  to  be  going  nicely 
for  the  fleet  when  an  event  occurred  which  completely 
upset  the  admiral's  plans  and  daunted  some  of  the 
stoutest  hearts  in  his  command,  for  the  monitor  Tecum- 
seh  struck  the  line  of  torpedoes;  one  of  them  exploded 
beneath  her  forefoot,  the  bow  of  the  iron-clad  lifted, 
plunged  forward,  and  she  went  down  with  her  stern  in 

317 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

the  air  in  a  few  seconds.  A  few  men  escaped  from 
the  turret,  and  were  seen  struggling  wildly  in  the 
water. 

Craven  and  the  pilot  met  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder 
leading  to  the  top  of  the  turret,  the  only  means  of 
escape  for  either  of  them.  There  was  room  for  one 
and  but  one,  on  that  ladder.  The  ship  was  fairly  drop 
ping  into  the  depths  under  their  feet.  What  hap 
pened?  Without  a  moment  of  hesitation  Craven  drew 
back,  motioning  the  other  forward.  "After  you, 
Pilot,"  he  said  grandly  and  with  exquisite  politeness. 
As  the  pilot  sprang  forward  the  ship  sank  beneath 
them,  and  Craven  went  down  with  his  ship. 

To  be  a  gentleman  all  the  time  and  to  go  down  with 
his  ship — these  are  characteristics  of  the  American 
sailor. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 


"DAMN  THE  TORPEDOES!    GO  AHEAD!" 

HEN  she  sank  the  Tecumseh  was  close 
aboard  the  Tennessee.  Willis  Peyton, 
who  commanded  the  forward  gun  di 
vision  on  the  ram  was  grimly  waiting 
by  Admiral  Buchanan's  specific  order 
until  the  two  vessels  were  in  actual 
contact  before  cutting  loose  with  his 
rifles.  He  was  appalled,  just  before 
the  monitor  reached  him,  to  see  her 
reel,  plunge,  and  vanish  beneath  the 
sea. 

In  the  confusion  the  men  of  the 
Hartford  got  the  idea  that  the  Tecum 
seh  had  sunk  the  Tennessee.  They 
leaped  on  the  rail  and  cheered  madly 
in  their  exultation,  and  the  crews  of  the  other  ships, 
deceived  also,  joined  in  the  acclaim.  But  the  admiral 
was  not  deceived.  He  had  noted  the  whole  disaster. 
He  saw  the  men  in  the  water,  too.  Instantly  he  called 
to  Peyton: 

"Take  one  of  the  boats  of  the  Metacomet,  Peyton, 

and  try  to  save  those  men.     Give  him  a  boat,  Jouett !" 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  replied  that  cool  young  officer,  as 

Peyton    clambered  over  to  the    Metacomet-s    deck, 

gathered  a  boat's  crew  as  he  ran,  dropped  into  one  of 

319 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

the  cutters  dragging  along  to  port,  pulled  out  around 
the  stern  of  the  Hartford,  right  into  the  hell  of  battle 
to  starboard. 

The  loss  of  the  Tecumseh  was  not  the  only  disaster 
of  the  morning,  however,  for  the  Brooklyn,  which  was 
in  the  lead,  suddenly  stopped. 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  Brooklyn,  Freeman?" 
cried  Farragut,  hailing  the  pilot.  "She  must  have 
plenty  of  water  there?" 

"Plenty  and  to  spare,  Admiral." 

"Why  does  she  stop,  then?" 

But  she  did  more  than  stop.  Though  that  was  dis 
astrous  enough,  she  began  to  back  down  upon  the 
Hartford  and  the  rest  of  the  fleet.  Indeed,  this  action 
of  the  Brooklyn  was  the  only  cloud  on  the  glory  of 
that  day. 

The  leading  ships  were  right  under  the  guns  of  the 
fort  now,  a  few  hundred  yards  away.  The  fire  from 
Mobile  Point  was  terrific.  As  the  Brooklyn  backed 
her  helm  was  shifted  and  she  turned  her  bows  straight 
to  the  fort.  Her  broadside  no  longer  bore,  and  her 
position  in  a  measure  blanketed  the  other  ships.  The 
men  in  the  fort  and  in  the  water-battery,  quick  to 
see  the  disadvantage  of  the  fleet,  sprang  to  their  guns 
again  and,  taking  deliberate  aim  at  point-blank  range, 
began  to  rake  the  hapless  Brooklyn  from  stem  to  stern. 
The  splinters  literally  flew  from  her  in  sheets.  Shot 
after  shot  beat  into  her,  shell  after  shell  ripped  through 
her,  and  she  could  make  no  reply  to  this  fearful  fire. 
If  the  gunners  in  the  fort  had  only  depressed  their 
guns  she  must  have  sunk  then  and  there.  Her  decks 

320 


"DAMN    THE   TORPEDOES!    GO   AHEAD!" 

began  to  look  like  a  slaughter-pen.  The  Hartford 
and  the  Richmond  also  came  under  a  fearful  fire.  The 
ships  were  almost  silent,  no  guns  bearing,  while  Fort 
Morgan  roared  and  seethed  with  hell  and  destruction. 

"What's  the  matter?"  cried  the  admiral,  his  face 
clouded  with  anxiety.  "Send  me  an  army  signal 
officer,"  he  shouted,  in  a  shrill  voice  that  was  heard 
even  above  the  commotion. 

In  a  moment  this  man  reported  that  the  Brooklyn 
was  signalling  by  flags  in  the  army  code  "Torpedoes 
ahead."  She  had  seen  a  line  of  empty  shell  boxes 
thrown  out  by  the  Tennessee  and  her  consorts,  and 
had  mistaken  them  for  torpedoes.  This  in  conjunc 
tion  with  the  loss  of  the  Tecumseh  and  the  narrowness 
of  the  channel  through  which  he  was  expected  to  pass, 
and  its  nearness  to  the  fort,  had  caused  the  captain 
first  to  stop  and  then  to  attempt  to  back  his  ship.  He 
was  beaten. 

The  six  leading  ships  were  now  huddled  together  in 
serious  danger  of  collision  under  the  guns  of  the  fort, 
which  were  deliberately  ripping  them  to  pieces  with 
heavy  shot.  The  high  masts  of  the  Hartford  and  the 
Brooklyn  clearly  indicated  their  position  and  enabled 
the  gunners  in  the  fort  and  on  the  Confederate  squad 
ron  to  find  them  easily  in  spite  of  the  smoke.  To 
hesitate  was  to  lose  everything.  It  was  that  crucial 
moment  of  the  battle  upon  the  instant  decision  of 
which  depended  success  or  failure. 

Admiral  Farragut  used  to  tell  how  at  that  moment 
he  breathed  a  brief  prayer  to  the  God  in  whom  he 
trusted,  saying,  "Shall  I  go  on?"  and  the  answer  came 

321 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

in  a  voice  which  seemed  to  him  audible  in  that  storm 
of  battle,  "Go  on."  That  was  what  he  did.  What  he 
said  was  vastly  different. 

When  he  learned  that  it  was  fear  of  torpedoes  that 
had  backed  the  Brooklyn  and  swung  her  athwart  the 
channel  he  shouted  out  in  those  sharp  tones  that  could 
be  heard  everywhere  on  the  ship : 

"Damn  the  torpedoes !  Four  bells,  Drayton !  Full 
speed,  Jouett!  Back  the  engines  of  the  Metacomet 
hard  and  then  go  ahead." 

The  one  backing,  the  other  going  ahead,  Farragut 
swung  his  flag-ship  across  the  Brooklyn's  stern — it  was 
impossible  to  cross  her  bows  in  the  position  she  then 
was  or  he  would  have  done  so — and  dashed  at  full  speed 
up  the  channel.  He  was  forced  to  skirt  the  shoal 
closely  as  he  did  so,  and  there  were  but  a  few  feet  of 
water  beneath  his  keel  as  he  rushed  on. 

"We  cannot  pass  to  the  eastward  of  the  buoy,  now, 
sir,"  called  out  the  pilot,  as  they  cleared  the  Brooklyn. 
"The  monitors  are  right  in  the  way  in  the  channel." 

"Straight  ahead!"  roared  the  admiral.  "Right  at 
the  line !" 

At  full  speed  now  the  Hartford,  enveloped  in  flame 
and  smoke  from  her  own  guns,  rushed  for  the  deadly 
torpedo  line.  Broadside  after  broadside  went  smash 
ing  into  the  fort  as  she  swept  magnificently  on.  Would 
she  too  meet  the  fate  of  the  Tecumseh?  What  would 
happen?  A  few  moments  would  determine,  but  mo 
ments  are  hours  in  such  scenes  as  these. 

The  men  below  on  the  Hartford  and  the  Metacomet 
heard  a  series  of  detonations  as  if  musketry  were  being 

322 


"DAMN    THE   TORPEDOES!    GO   AHEAD!" 

exploded  beneath  the  keel.  The  primers  of  the  tor 
pedoes  as  the  mighty  ship  struck  them  snapped  one 
after  another,  but  the  salt  water  had  rendered  the 
deadly  infernal  machines  innocuous.  That  and  the  ad 
miral's  forethought  in  going  in  with  the  flood-tide, 
which  turned  most  of  the  percussion  caps  away  from 
the  onrushing  ships,  saved  him. 

In  a  moment  he  was  safe  over  the  line.  It  was  a 
few  minutes  after  eight  o'clock.  Grim  and  black  be 
fore  him  loomed  the  Tennessee  and  the  gun-boats  ahead 
of  her — their  position  giving  them  immunity — raking 
the  Hartford  again  and  again.  The  Tennessee  made 
for  the  flag-ship  as  if  to  ram,  but  by  clever  manoeuver- 
ing  and  her  faster  speed  the  Hartford  prevented  this. 
The  two  vessels  exchanged  broadsides,  however,  and 
shells  from  the  Tennessee  passed  through  the  wooden 
ship,  while  the  solid  shot  from  the  Hartford  rebounded 
harmlessly  from  the  iron  sides  of  the  Tennessee. 

Shot  and  shell  were  coming  in  from  all  sides  on  the 
Hartford,  still  within  range  of  the  fort,  and  so  rapidly 
were  her  own  guns  served  that  she  looked  like  a  ship 
on  fire.  A  ghastly  procession  of  wounded  men  were 
being  sent  to  the  cockpit,  and  the  decks  were  covered 
with  dead  men  weltering  in  their  blood.  The  carnage 
was  fearful. 

Meanwhile,  inspired  by  the  example  of  the  admiral, 
the  Brooklyn  got  her  head  around  at  last  and,  followed 
by  the  Richmond  and  the  Pensacola  and  the  others, 
rushed  desperately  for  the  torpedo  line,  the  captains 
thinking  to  go  to  a  noble  death  with  their  admiral. 
Owing  to  their  anxiety  and  hurry  the  regular  order 

323 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

was  abandoned,  and  the  ships  passed  up  as  they  could, 
sheets  of  flame  and  smoke  pouring  from  their  broad 
sides  upon  the  fort.  Some  of  the  ships  passed 
perilously  near  the  shoals  in  the  confusion;  at  one  time 
the  Richmond  had  less  than  a  foot  of  water  under  her 
keel 

As  Farragut  passed  out  of  range  of  the  fort  and 
the  Hartford  got  out  into  open  water  he  cast  loose  the 
Metacomei  and  turned  his  broadsides  upon  the  gun 
boats,  which,  being  utterly  unable  to  cope  with  such 
a  heavy  ship,  fled  incontinently,  pursued  by  Jouett  at 
full  speed.  As  the  other  ships  came  up  they  followed 
the  example  of  the  first  pair,  and  the  Confederate  flo 
tilla  was  hotly  chased  by  the  Union  gun-boats. 

Meanwhile  Buchanan  on  the  Tennessee  ran  down  the 
fleet.  He  tried  to  ram  one  ship  after  another,  but 
without  success,  while  he  himself  was  lightly  rammed 
by  the  Monongahela.  Into  each  one,  however,  as  he 
passed  her,  he  poured  his  terrible  broadsides,  indiffer 
ent  to  the  return  fire  from  the  heaviest  guns  they 
carried. 

The  tremendous  broadsides  of  the  great  ships  in 
the  lead  had  kept  down  the  fire  of  the  fort,  but  when 
the  vessels  of  less  gun-power  came  swinging  by  the 
Confederates  returned  to  their  positions,  punishing 
them  severely;  the  last  one  in  the  procession,  the  rear 
ship  of  the  fleet,  was  the  Oneida.  Except  the  Brooklyn 
and  the  Hartford  she  suffered  more  than  any  other, 
beset  both  by  the  Tennessee  and  the  fort.  A  shell  from 
the  fort  exploded  her  boiler,  killing  or  wounding  every 
man  in  the  fire-room,  leaving  her  helpless,  while  an- 

324 


"DAMN    THE    TORPEDOES!    GO   AHEAD!" 

other  from  the  Tennessee  took  off  the  arm  of  her  com 
manding  officer.  Her  consort,  however,  and  the  drift 
ing  tide,  finally  carried  her  past  the  fort  and  up  to  the 
rest  of  the  fleet.  The  Selma  was  captured  by  the 
Metacomet.  The  Games  was  wrecked  by  shells, 
beached  and  burned.  The  Morgan  succeeded  in  gain 
ing  the  protection  of  the  fort,  where  the  Tennessee 
presently  joined  her. 

At  half  after  eight  o'clock  the  Hartford  anchored 
above  the  middle  ground,  followed  in  succession  as 
they  arrived  by  the  other  ships  of  the  fleet.  The  pas 
sage  had  been  made,  but  at  a  heavy  cost  in  shattered 
ships,  a  lost  monitor,  and  dead  and  dying  men.  The 
three  remaining  monitors  which  had  done  noble  ser 
vice  remaining  close  to  the  fort  and  heavily  engaged 
until  the  last  ship  passed,  brought  up  the  rear.  Dur 
ing  the  battle  the  admiral  had  marked  Stevens  com 
manding  the  Winnebago,  walking  calmly  back  and 
forth  between  the  iron  turrets  of  his  monitor,  quietly 
directing  their  fire;  and  the  whole  fleet  had  joyed  in 
the  sight  of  Perkins  dancing  excitedly  up  and  down 
on  the  top  of  the  turret  of  the  Chickasaw;  both  the 
vessels  and  the  officers  being  in  easy  rifle  range  of  the 
enemy. 

"What  we  have  done,  Admiral,"  said  Drayton,  "has 
been  well  done,  but  it  counts  nothing  so  long  as  the 
Tennessee  rides  yonder  beneath  the  fort." 

"I  know  it,"  returned  the  admiral,  "and  as  soon  as 
the  men  have  had  their  breakfast  I  am  going  for 
her." 


CHAPTER    XL 


IN   THE  CASEMATE   OF  FORT    MORGAN 

ARY  ANNAN  had  refused  to  leave 
her  brother's  side  to  take  any  rest, 
and  old  Dr.  Bampney  had  faithfully 
kept  her  company.  Together  the  two 
watched  through  the  long  night. 
Many  a  vigil  the  old  clergyman  had 
kept  by  the  bedside  of  the  dying,  not 
often  one  so  sad  as  this.  The  boy 
slept  heavily  at  first,  but  as  the  effects 
of  the  opiate  wore  away  the  persistent 
pain  made  him  restless.  Toward 
morning  he  drifted  into  consciousness 
again,  as  he  had  drifted  into  sleep  the 
night  before. 

It  is  a  hard  thing  to  look  at  one 
we  love  suffer  and  be  able  to  do  noth 
ing;  to  give  no  answer  to  the  mute  appeal  which  fills 
the  eye  even  though  the  lips  do  not  frame  it.  No 
where  else  is  the  utter  impotency  of  humanity  so  ap 
parent.  There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  for 
Beverly  Annan,  absolutely  nothing.  Medical  science 
of  that  day  did  not  possess  the  anodynes  of  the  present, 
and  if  it  had,  the  limited  resources  of  the  hard-pushed, 
straitened  Confederacy  would  have  been  unable  to 
supply  them.  The  boy  had  to  shut  his  teeth  and 

326 


IN  THE  CASEMATE  OF  FORT  MORGAN 

suffer  as  men  have  suffered  since  time  and  the  world 
began;  and  she  had  to  shut  her  teeth  and  bend  over 
him  and  suffer  even  as  if  she  had  been  wounded  her 
self.  There  was  no  other  way. 

Well,  it  would  soon  be  over.  Death  is  an  appalling 
thing  to  most  people.  Usually  it  is  more  horrible 
to  those  who  stand  by  and  see  another  die  than  it  is  to 
the  dying.  Generally  there  is  little  room  for  philoso 
phy,  for  apprehension,  for  curiosity,  in  the  articles  of 
death.  The  dying,  almost  invariably,  suffer  so  that  all 
their  conscious  desires  are  merged  in  one  overwhelm 
ing  wish  for  a  respite,  for  a  cessation  of  pain,  a  sur 
cease  of  suffering,  and  when  the  respite  does  come 
they  are  too  weak  to  care ;  but  there  comes  a  time  when 
the  horror  of  death  vanishes  even  for  the  watchers, 
and  those  who  love  most,  pray  most  fervently  that  the 
end  may  come  quickly  and  the  terrible  struggle  give 
place  to  peace. 

It  was  morning  and  Beverly  was  no  better,  only  he 
was  nearing  the  end.  There  was  something  in  that. 
The  surgeon  had  come  and  gone  with  a  despairing 
shake  of  his  head,  'the  general  had  stooped  over  him 
once  more  and  had  left  him  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
He  was  an  old  soldier,  he  had  seen  many  people  die; 
few  had  affected  him  as  did  this  lad.  Little  groups  of 
his  comrades  had  come  in,  tip-toed  over  to  the  bed, 
gazed  silently  and  sympathetically  on  him,  and  had 
gone  out  again  without  a  word.  Sometimes  he  recog 
nized  them,  sometimes  he  did  not. 

His  suffering  was  so  keen  that  all  his  physical  facul 
ties  were  drawn  up  into  it,  and  it  was  only  in  brief  inter- 

327 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

mittent  periods  of  comparative  respite  that  he  took 
cognizance  of  things  about  him.  Sometimes  he  mut 
tered  incoherently,  but  generally  what  he  said  was  suffi 
ciently  intelligible.  By  and  by  the  pale  grayness  of 
the  dawn  rose-colored  the  East.  The  light  of  the 
rising  sun  presently  leaped  through  the  open  door, 
flooding  the  casemate.  Dr.  Bampney  rose  and  put 
out  the  lamp.  After  a  while  a  beam  fell  across  the 
bed  whereon  the  boy  lay.  It  was  broad  daylight  now, 
and  there  came  to  him  one  of  those  rare  moments  of 
comparative  ease.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  saw  the 
light  on  the  wall. 

"Morning,"  he  murmured;  "no  better." 
There  was  a  sudden  fierce  rattle  of  drums  outside, 
the  shrilling  of  a  trumpet.  The  peaceful  silence  of  that 
summer  morning  was  broken  by  hurried  commands, 
the  rush  of  many  feet,  shouts  and  cries;  the  creak  of 
tackles  as  the  huge  guns  were  loaded  and  prepared  for 
action,  which  filled  the  room  with  a  dreadful  note  of 
preparation. 

"What's  that  call?"  he  whispered,  hoarsely.  "It's 
the  assembly!"  he  cried,  his  voice  growing  stronger. 
"They  must  be  coming  up  at  last.  They  are  casting 
loose  the  guns !  I  must  go  to  the  ramparts.  Duty !" 
He  actually  lifted  himself  on  his  hands  and  rose  in 
his  bed.  For  a  second  they  stared  at  him,  horrified  at 
his  appearance.  Then  he  fell  slowly  back  on  the  bed, 
a  helpless  look  on  his  face,  whiter  than  the  linen  of 
the  pillows. 

"I  cannot!"  he  gasped.     "Useless,  O  God " 

Something  had  happened.     He  was  dying.     The 

328 


IN  THE  CASEMATE  OF  FORT  MORGAN 

end  was  at  hand.     The  woman  seized  his  hand,  look 
ing  at  him.     He  did  not  speak. 

Two  sudden  flashes  as  of  vivid  lightning  out  of  the 
clear  sky  of  that  morning  dazzled  the  vision.  They 
seemed  to  come  from  directly  overhead.  They  were 
followed  instantly  by  a  detonating  crash  appalling  in  its 
terrific  volume.  The  two  shells  fired  by  the  Tecumseh 
had  burst  above  the  citadel.  The  air  was  filled  with 
smoke  and  flying  iron. 

"It's  war,"  the  boy  cried,  suddenly,  his  voice  as  full 
and  strong  as  if  he  were  in  health.  "I  must  go — the 
flag " 

But  it  was  of  no  use;  the  last  flicker  of  his  vitality 
had  gone  into  his  will.  He  was  going  on  a  longer 
journey  than  to  the  rampart  now.  He  was  past  all 
speech  as  he  lay  on. his  pillow.  The  girl  dropped  his 
hand,  rose  and  stood  over  him,  her  hands  stretched 
out  to  him.  Only  the  arm  of  the  old  clergyman  kept 
her  from  falling  across  the  bed.  It  seemed  to  her 
afterward  that  she  heard  his  voice  coming  from  far 
away,  murmuring  broken  words  of  consolation  and 
prayer.  Over  her  head  and  about  her  the  guns  were 
roaring  now.  The  rattle  of  the  grape-shot,  the  scream 
ing  of  the  shell,  the  crashing  detonations  of  the  can- 
nonnade,  filled  the  morning  with  hideous  sound.  But 
above  all  the  noise  in  some  strange  way  her  faculties 
were  so  attuned  that  she  caught  and  heard  that  faint, 
desperate  struggle  for  breath  on  the  narrow  bed  be 
fore  her.  For  five  minutes,  perhaps,  it  continued, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  and  then  it  just  stopped. 
Thank  God ! 

329 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

In  spite  of  the  clamor  outside — the  room  seemed 
strangely  silent.  She  could  hear  her  heart  beat,  or  was 
it  about  to  stop  too? 

" War,  war !"  she  gasped  out  brokenly,  at  last,  "and 
I  wished  it!  I  welcomed  it.  With  other  women  I 
cheered  them  on.  Now  we  are  paid.  Oh,  my  boy, 
my  boy !  My  little  brother,  the  last  one !  War,  war ! 
And  he  is  out  there !" 

Oh,  Peyton,  Peyton,  what  power  had  you  over  this 
woman's  heart  that  even  at  this  moment  she  could 
think  of  you!  She  dropped  upon  her  knees  by  the 
bed  and  seized  the  lifeless  hand  of  her  brother  and  laid 
her  forehead  upon  it,  murmuring  again  and  again,  as  if 
she  could  not  get  away  from  the  idea,  "War,  war !" 

"Ah,  my  dear,  war  is  terrible,"  said  the  old  doctor, 
tenderly  smoothing  her  hair  as  it  swept  the  cover,  and 
then  drawing  her  gently  away;  "but  there  on  the  bed 
is  peace  at  last.  Thank  God  for  it!" 

They  were  not  allowed  to  cherish  their  grief  alone,  or 
for  long,  however,  for  as  Dr.  Bampney  spoke  a  body 
of  men  crowded  through  the  casemate  door.  The 
casemate  was  in  the  curtain  which  was  protected  by 
the  water  battery,  and  was  probably  the  safest  place  in 
the  fort.  For  that  reason  they  had  turned  it  into  a 
hospital.  The  men  who  entered  it  bore  on  a  rude 
stretcher  a  frightfully  injured  soldier,  who  had  been 
terribly  torn  by  an  exploding  shell.  And  there  were 
other  wounded  and  dying  also  that  followed  hard  upon 
the  first  in  that  hour  of  battle.  As  she  thought  of  that 
afterward,  they  proved  the  salvation  of  the  woman. 
They  gave  her  something  to  do.  Her  mind  was  reel- 

330 


IN  THE  CASEMATE  OF  FORT  MORGAN 

ing  under  the  shock,  but  she  gave  herself  to  the 
wounded,  and  that  distracted  her  from  her  grief.  She 
did  not  forget,  no,  never  that;  but  in  serving  others 
she  found  strength  to  bear  her  own  burden.  There 
were  so  few  who  could  be  spared  to  look  after  the 
wounded,  and  she  and  Dr.  Bampney  rendered  good 
service  to  the  surgeon  and  his  assistants.  Under  other 
circumstances  she  would  have  shrunk  appalled  from 
the  horrors  of  the  wounded  there  in  that  bloody  case 
mate  of  death,  but  she  had  gone  through  everything 
already;  her  sensibilities  had  been  quite  deadened  by 
the  strain  upon  them.  She  was  past  shock  and  suffer 
ing,  she  thought.  At  any  rate  she  found  strength  to 
do  what  few  women  trained  as  she  had  been,  could  have 
done,  and  to  the  demands  of  the  situation  she  was  en 
abled  to  make  adequate  reply. 

But  when  the  battle  was  over  and  the  strain  re 
laxed  she  had  to  take  cognizance  again  of  that  small 
boyish  figure  under  the  white  sheet  covering  it  from 
head  to  foot,  while  she  wondered  dimly  if  Boyd  Pey 
ton,  too,  had  been  sacrificed  to  the  insatiable  war-god 
that  ruled  the  land. 


CHAPTER    XLI 


ON  THE  END  OF  THE  WIRE 

T  half  after  six  in  the  morning  the 
operator  at  head-quarters  in  Mobile 
was  called  up  to  receive  information 
that  the  Federal  fleet  was  at  last 
about  to  attempt  to  force  an  entrance 
into  the  bay.  The  news  was  taken  in 
stantly  to  the  commanding  general, 
who,  knowing  her  intense  personal 
interest  in  the  battle  in  which  her 
husband  and  two  sons  were  engaged, 
immediately  dispatched  an  orderly  to 
Mrs.  Peyton  with  the  news.  In 
a  few  moments  Mrs.  Peyton  with 
Pink,  and  Tempe,  who  had  insisted 
upon  accompanying  them,  came  into 
the  telegraph  office. 

The  little  room  was  filled  with  men.  General 
Maury  and  his  staff  were  crowded  around  the  oper 
ator's  desk  listening,  with  their  intense  emotions  re 
flected  in  their  faces,  to  the  messages  clicked  off  the 
wire. 

"What  is  it,  General  Maury?  Is  there  news?" 
asked  Mrs.  Peyton,  as  she  came  into  the  room. 

"Make  way  here,  gentlemen,"  said  the  general,  forc 
ing  his  way  through  the  crowd  and  coming  toward  the 

332 


ON   THE    END   OF   THE   WIRE 

woman.  "My  dear  Madam  Peyton,"  he  continued, 
"the  enemy  are  about  to  engage  the  forts  and  our  naval 
force  in  the  bay." 

"Has  the  battle  begun?" 

"Not  yet,  madam.  The  fleet  is  just  coming  within 
range.  The  monitors  are  leading,  and  they  seem  to  be 
in  three  columns.  We  will  get  news  as  fast  as  it 
comes  in.  There  is  a  direct  wire  between  the  fort  and 
head-quarters  here.  Go  within  the  railing,  Mrs.  Pey 
ton,  and  you,  Miss  Pink.  There  are  chairs  there,  and 
you  will  have  a  little  more  room.  We  are  so  inter 
ested  that  I  am  afraid  that  we  might  crowd  you  out 
here,"  said  the  general,  courteously. 

Within  the  railing  and  next  to  the  operator  the  two 
women  and  the  little  girl  sat  down.  There  was  a  win 
dow  looking  to  the  south  near  them,  which  was  open. 
As  they  settled  themselves  to  listen,  Tempe,  whose  ear 
was  of  the  keenest,  suddenly  called  out  in  her  shrill 
little  voice : 

"Don't  you  hear  the  guns  ?    There !" 

She  pointed  toward  the  open  window  as  she  spoke. 
The  room  had  been  filled  with  noise,  which  imme 
diately  gave  place  to  silence  as  everybody  stopped  talk 
ing  or  moving  to  listen.  Mrs.  Peyton's  heart  beat 
so  that  she  could  hear  nothing.  One  or  two  officers 
thought  they  could  distinguish  the  sound,  but  most 
declared  themselves  unable  to  hear  anything.  As  the 
child  had  spoken,  however,  the  general  looked  up  at 
the  clock  on  the  wall.  The  hands  marked  6 .47. 

Click-click,  click-click-click,  click-click,  click-click, 
rattled  the  sounder  on  the  table.  The  operator  trans- 

333 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

lated  the  message  verbally  as  the  words  were  spelled 
out  by  the  key : 

"Leading  —  monitor  —  opens  —  fire.  Shells  —  ex 
plode  —  harmlessly  —  over  —  fort.  Garrison  —  at 

—  quarters  —  ready.     Pleasants  —  acts  —  as  —  aid 

—  to  —  General  —  Peyton." 

A  deep  sigh  broke  from  the  lips  of  Madam  Peyton 
at  this  confirmation  of  the  news.  Tempe  was  right, 
then.  She  had  heard  the  two  fifteen-inch  guns  of  the 
Tecumseh.  A  murmur  of  conversation  broke  out  in 
the  room  again,  to  be  instantly  hushed  at  the  calling 
of  the  sounder : 

"Beverly — Annan — just — died." 

"My  brother,"  wailed  little  Tempe,  bitterly,  burst 
ing  into  the  noisy  tears  of  childhood. 

Pink  Peyton,  herself  almost  heartbroken,  for  her 
lover  as  well  as  her  father  and  brothers  was  there, 
gathered  the  little  waif  to  her  breast  and  strove  to 
soothe  her  agitation.  She  would  have  given  worlds 
to  weep  herself. 

"Poor  boy!"  said  the  general,  taking  off  his  hat, 
"poor  lad !  Well,  he  died  like " 

"Click-click !"  rang  again  from  the  table. 

"Fort  —  has  —  opened  —  fire  —  with  —  every  — 
gun  —  that  —  bears.  General  —  Peyton  —  freely 

—  exposes  —  himself  —  on  —  ramparts.       Moni 
tors  —  close  —  to  —  fort.     Leading  —  monitor  — 
heading  —  toward  —  Tennessee  —  which  —  with  — 
gun-boats  —  standing  —  across  —  channel  —  heavily 

—  engaged.       Two  —  of  —  our  —  men  —  killed. 
Names  —  later.     Leading  —  ships  —  firing  —  shell 

334 


ON    THE    END    OF   THE    WIRE 

—  and  —  shrapnel  —  point  —  blank  —  range.  Moni 
tor  —  approaching  —  Tennessee.  Firing  —  heavy  — 
and  —  continuous." 

The  room  was  filled  with  such  excitement  as  has 
rarely  been  contained  within  four  walls.  Distinctions 
of  rank  were  forgotten.  Men  crowded  around  the 
operator  seated  before  the  trembling  key,  their  breath 
coming  quickly,  their  faces  red  or  pale  according  to 
their  temperament,  as  the  story  of  the  tremendous 
action  thirty  miles  away  was  clicked  off  in  broken  sen 
tences  from  the  tenuous  wire.  It  was  like  holding  a 
battle  by  a  thread.  That  long  strip  of  copper  put  them 
in  touch  with  it.  It  was  alive.  In  their  imagination 
they  could  hear  and  see  as  they  waited  and  listened 
eagerly  for  more  tidings  from  the  front.  Murmurs, 
mutterings,  ejaculations,  broke  from  the  deep-breath 
ing  men. 

Tempe  sobbed  softly  in  Pink  Peyton's  arms.  Mrs. 
Peyton  sat  with  her  two  hands  clasping  the  arms  of 
the  chair,  her  head  bent  forward,  her  face  lifted  as  if 
she  were  waiting,  and  in  vain,  for  some  assurance  of 
the  fate  of  those  she  loved,  from  the  slender  wire. 

In  the  intervals  between  the  messages  the  room 
quivered  and  vibrated  with  outward  manifestations  of 
the  fierce  pent-up  emotions  possessing  the  listening 
people,  which  seemed  as  if  they  must  break  the  walls, 
as  they  burst  from  the  hearts  of  the  men  and  women 
hanging  upon  the  clicking  key.  And  how  they  lis 
tened  all,  but  none  as  Mrs.  Peyton. 

Outside  a  great  crowd  speedily  gathered,  as  the 
news  flew  from  house  to  house  in  the  city  that  morn- 

335 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

ing,  eager  to  hear  the  bulletins  as  they  were  read  to 
them  from  the  front  window  in  the  head-quarters 
building.  Scarcely  an  individual  in  the  multitude  but 
had  a  personal  interest  in  the  battles;  the  fort  and  the 
Confederate  ships  were  largely  manned  by  men  from 
Mobile  and  the  vicinity. 

But  when  the  rattling  of  the  key  broke  in  upon  those 
in  the  room  all  other  noises  died  away  and  they  held 
their  breaths  to  listen.  There  were  many  men  in  that 
room  who  would  have  given  all  they  possessed  to  be 
in  the  battle.  Their  desires  as  well  as  their  charac 
teristics  were  indicated  in  their  positions,  in  the  way 
they  listened,  in  the  looks  that  came  over  their  faces. 

"Leading — monitor" — clicked  out  from  the  wire — 
"believed  —  to  —  be  —  Tecumseh  —  is  —  about  — 
to  —  grapple  —  Tennessee.  She  —  has  —  veered  to 

—  port  —  heading  —  straight  —  for  —  the  —  torpedo 

—  line.     Ships  —  are  —  about  —  to  —  engage." 
There  was  another  wait  followed  with  feverish  im 
patience,  then : 

"Explosion  —  just  —  taken — place.     Can't  —  see 

—  on  —  account  —  of  smoke  —  whether  —  moni 
tor  —  or  —  the  —  Tennessee." 

O  God,  those  awful  breaks,  those  sinister  silences, 
filled  with  forebodings  which  drove  one  mad,  especially 
if  one  were  a  woman,  a  mother.  The  Tennessee  was 
Willis's  ship.  Merciful  Providence — could  it  have 
been — ah,  the  wire  again : 

"Monitor  —  torpedoed.     Sinks  —  with  —  all  —  on 

—  board.     Tennessee  —  safe." 

"Thank  God,  thank  God !"  murmured  the  woman, 
336 


ON    THE    END    OF   THE    WIRE 

in  great  relief,  forgetful  that  for  her  thanks  hundreds 
of  others,  ay,  mothers  too,  would  have  to  suffer  when 
they  heard  of  the  loss  of  the  Tecumseh. 

Once  more  the  wire  clicked. 

"Enemy's  —  ships  —  stopped.  Swung  —  around 
— opposite — fort  — two  —  hundred  —  yards  —  away. 
Water  —  battery  —  doing  —  fearful  —  execution. 
Leading  —  ship  —  Brooklyn  —  being  —  raked  — 
with  —  every  —  shot.  Ships  —  in  —  huddle  —  in  — 
channel.  Believe  —  they  —  are  —  beaten." 

The  room  rang  with  cheers.  Men  jumped  up  and 
down  like  mad  and  hugged  each  other  like  boys.  Hats 
were  waved.  They  shouted  and  danced  as  crazy 
people  might  have  done. 

"Silence,  gentlemen,  please !"  cried  the  operator,  "I 
can't  hear  the  message." 

It  was  difficult  to  keep  quiet  in  the  face  of  such 
glorious  news,  but  they  did  it. 

"Ships  —  pour  —  in  —  tremendous  —  fire,"  ran 
the  message.  "Shell  from  —  Hartford  —  second 
ship  —  bearing  —  admiral's  —  flag  —  strikes  —  para 
pet  —  near  —  commanding  —  officer." 

Mrs.  Peyton  rose  to  her  feet  and  stepped  forward. 
Now  it  was  her  husband.  Her  daughter  clasped  her 
mother's  hand;  her  lover,  too,  was  by  her  father's 
side.  One  of  the  officers  stepped  to  the  older  woman 
and  assisted  in  supporting  her. 

"Wait,  Madam  Peyton,  wait !"  cried  General  Maury, 
reassuringly.  "I  am  sure  he  has  escaped." 

"General  —  Peyton  —  slightly  —  wounded,"  clat 
tered  the  impassive  key,  "keeps  —  place  —  on  — 

337 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

rampart.      Channel  —  covered  —  with  —  smoke. 
Hartford  —  appears  —  to  —  be  —  on  —  fire.     Fleet 

—  in  —  hopeless  —  confusion.     Our  —  gunners  — 
make  —  fine  —  practice  —  on  —  them.     Rest  —  of 

—  fleet  —  close  —  up." 

The  woman  was  almost  distracted.  There  was  no 
excitement,  nothing  thrilling  in  the  scene  for  her. 
First  her  husband,  then  her  boy  on  the  Tennessee,  then 
her  boy  on  the  Hartford,  in  that  hideous  net-work  of 
death  and  destruction,  in  that  awful  hell  of  war.  Wher 
ever  she  turned  she  was  struck  to  the  heart;  no  matter 
who  won  or  what  happened,  she  lost.  It  seemed  as 
if  her  whole  being  was  there  in  the  very  centre  of  it 
all,  as  if  every  shot  that  was  fired  passed  through  her 
heart.  She  had  gone  through  some  terrible  experi 
ences,  this  was  the  worst  of  all.  She  could  bear  it 
no  longer.  Stop!  That  awful  wire  was  clicking 
again. 

"A  —  ship  —  disengages  —  itself  —  from  —  fight. 
Swings  —  around  —  Brooklyn  —  heads  —  up  — 
channel.  Fire  —  of  —  gun-boats  —  and  —  Tennessee 

—  concentrated  —  on  —  it  —  alone.     Bears  —  ad 
miral's  —  blue  —  flag.     Impossible  —  to  —  pass  — 
except  —  over  —  torpedo  —  line.     Hartford  —  ap 
proaching  —  the  —  line." 

Another  of  those  soul-racking  breaks;  was  the  Hart 
ford  to  meet  the  fate  of  the  monitor? 

"Small  —  boat  —  flying  —  Union  —  flag  —  ob 
served  —  pulling  —  between  —  ships  —  and  —  fort. 
Purpose  —  to  —  rescue  —  few  —  monitor's  —  men  — 
surviving.  General  —  Peyton  —  orders  —  gunners 

338 


ON    THE    END    OF   THE   WIRE 

—  not  —  to  —  fire  —  on  —  brave  —  fellows  —  sav 
ing  —  life." 

What  did  she  care  for  small  boats  or  anything  but 
for  that  ship  on  which  her  oldest  son  fought,  now  per 
haps  right  over  those  deadly  torpedoes !  Oh,  why  was 
that  key  silent?  Didn't  they  know  it  was  playing  with 
a  mother's  heart?  The  strain  was  killing  her.  Un 
less  it  began  again  she  should  go  mad.  She  was  trem 
bling  and  shaking  like  an  aspen  leaf  in  spite  of  her 
effort  at  self-control.  No  one  paid  attention  to  her, 
so  eagerly  were  they  listening. 

"Hartford  —  nearing  —  torpedo —  line.  Boyd  — 
Peyton  —  recognized  —  as  —  officer  —  on  —  small 

—  boat.     Can  —  scarcely  —  escape  —  between  — 
fort  —  and  —  ships." 

"Boyd !    Boyd !    It  can't  be !"  whispered  the  woman. 

"By  God!"  cried  one  of  the  men,  "he  may  be  a 
traitor  to  the  South,  but  he's  a  brave  man — a  hero !" 

"Boat  —  picks  —  up  —  few  —  men.  Turns  — 
back  —  to  —  ship.  Right  —  in  —  centre  —  line  — 
of  —  firing.  Not  —  possible  —  to  —  escape.  Ten 
nessee  —  running  —  for  —  Hartford.  Hartford  — 
right  —  over  —  the  —  tor " 

The  sounder  stopped  calling. 

Mrs.  Peyton,  exhausted  human  nature  at  last  giv 
ing  way,  sank  gently  to  the  floor  in  her  daughter's 
arms. 

No  more  messages  came  over  that  wire.  They 
waited  in  great  anxiety  for  a  minute  or  two,  and  then 
the  operator  strove  to  call  up  Fort  Morgan.  In  vain 
— the  connection  was  broken.  A  shot  from  the  Rich- 

339 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

mond  had  demolished  the  telegraph  office,  wounding 
the  brave  operator,  who  had  watched  the  fighting  from 
a  vacant  embrasure  whence  he  telegraphed  the  news. 

There  was  nothing  to  do  in  Mobile  but  wait. 
Whether  the  Hartford  was  blown  up,  whether  the  ships 
succeeded  in  passing,  whether  the  Tennessee  fulfilled 
the  expectations  of  her  builders,  they  could  not  tell. 
The  people  lingered  in  the  streets,  straining  to  catch 
the  sound  of  the  cannon,  and  General  Maury  sent 
couriers  down  both  sides  of  the  bay  to  re-establish 
communication  with  the  forts,  and,  if  possible,  learn 
what  had  happened. 


CHAPTER    XLII 


IN    THE   METACOMET  S    CUTTER 

E  left  Peyton  in  the  cutter  of  the  Meta- 
comet.  The  men  who  had  been  de 
tailed  to  man  the  boat  had  tumbled 
over  the  side  in  such  eagerness  that 
they  almost  fell  to  their  places  on  the 
thwarts.  Oars  were  broken  out  at 
once,  Peyton  grasped  the  yoke-lines  in 
his  hand,  the  boat  swept  around  under 
the  vigorous  impetus  of  the  stout 
arms,  passed  the  stern  of  the  Meta- 
comet,  darted  between  the  stern  of  the 
Hartford  and  the  bow  of  the  Rich 
mond,  her  next  astern,  ranged  along 
the  starboard  side  of  the  Brooklyn,  and 

entered  the  zone  of  fire. 

The  roar  of  the  discharge  was  absolutely  con 
tinuous.  The  air  was  filled  with  shot  and  shell.  The 
screaming  was  like  the  sound  of  a  thousand  tempests. 
The  water  all  about  them  was  lashed  to  froth,  beaten 
into  foam,  by  grape-shot,  canister,  shrapnel,  and  bits 
of  iron  from  exploding  shell.  Close  as  they  neces 
sarily  were  to  the  ships,  the  tremendous  broad-sides 
from  the  decks  passed  only  a  few  feet  above  their  head. 
It  was  a  situation  to  appall  the  stoutest  heart.  They 

34i 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

seemed  to  be  floating  on  a  sea  of  boiling  water  cano 
pied  by  a  heaven  of  fire.  Their  position  was  one  of 
horrible  peril.  One  shot  striking  the  little  boat  and 
they  would  be  lost.  Between  the  triple  cross-fire  from 
their  own  ships,  the  fort,  and  the  Confederate  squadron, 
it  did  not  seem  humanly  possible  that  they  could  es 
cape.  Peyton  had  pulled  about  half  the  length  of  the 
Hartford  before  he  discovered  that  no  flag  was  flying. 

"Oars !"  he  called,  instantly,  and  as  the  men  stopped 
rowing,  he  dropped  the  yoke-lines,  stepped  forward, 
and  picked  up  the  boat  flag  from  where  it  lay  in  its  case 
along  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  came  back  to  the  stern- 
sheets,  uncased  it  deliberately,  shook  out  its  folds 
coolly,  and  then  stepped  it  aft  in  the  socket  pro 
vided.  He  did  not  do  this  a  moment  too  soon.  The 
forward  pivot-gun  on  the  Hartford,  of  which  he  was 
right  abreast,  had  been  turned  on  him.  Seeing  only 
a  boatful  of  men  in  the  smoke,  ignorant  that  it  was  one 
of  their  own,  supposing,  perhaps,  that  it  might  have 
been  a  torpedo-boat,  the  lock-string  quivered  in  the 
hand  of  the  officer  to  speed  the  bolt  which  would  have 
blown  the  cutter  out  of  the  water. 

'"For  God's  sake,  sir !"  cried  one  of  the  men  of  the 
gun  crew,  recognizing  the  young  officer  as  he  peered 
over  the  rail,  "don't  fire !  It's  Leftenant  Peyton !" 

At  that  opportune  instant  the  flag  rippled  out.  How 
the  men  on  the  Hartford  cheered  as  they  saw  it  and 
noticed  the  sturdy  oarsmen  pick  up  the  stroke  and 
shoot  the  boat  ahead  toward  the  place  where  the 
Tecumseh  had  gone  down. 

An  officer  and  a  few  men  ready  to  give  up  were 
342 


IN    THE   METACOMETS    CUTTER 

swimming  exhaustedly  in  that  vortex  of  fire,  when  the 
boat  swept  alongside  them.  The  cutter  had  gone  ahead 
of  the  main  battle  to  reach  the  place  where  the 
Tecumseh  had  been  sunk,  and  as  she  came  bursting  out 
of  the  heavier  pall  of  smoke  she  was  in  full  view  of 
both  the  fort  and  the  ram.  General  Peyton  caught 
sight  of  the  boat  first. 

"Look  yonder!"  he  cried  to  the  men  of  the  next  bar 
bette  gun  to  his  position,  pointing,  "fire  on  that  boat ! 
Sink  her!" 

Colonel  Pleasants,  however,  standing  by  his  side, 
had  fortunately  caught  the  boat  at  the  same  moment 
in  the  field  of  his  glass. 

"By  heaven,  sir !"  he  cried,  "there's  your  son !" 

"Should  I  spare  my  own  son,"  cried  the  general, 
sternly,  "more  than  any  other  man  who  is  an  enemy? 
Fire  upon  him !"  he  cried  to  the  hesitant  gunners. 

"No !"  said  Pleasants  springing  toward  the  gun. 

Was  he  too  late?  The  piece  had  been  trained  on 
the  boat  and  the  gun-captain's  arm  had  already 
tautened  upon  the  lock-string.  In  another  moment 
the  hammer  would  fall  and  the  shot  be  sped.  The  dis 
tance  was  too  short  to  miss,  the  aim  perfect. 

The  old  general  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand.  His 
duty  bade  him  fire,  his  heart  would  not  let  him  look. 
But  Pleasants  intervened.  He  threw  his  hand  over  the 
vent  of  the  piece,  and  the  hammer  struck  the  back  of 
his  hand  a  sharp  blow,  numbing  it  with  the  force  with 
which  it  fell,  but  the  gun  was  not  discharged. 

"General  Peyton,"  cried  the  young  man,  still  clutch 
ing  at  the  vent,  "they  are  on  an  errand  of  mercy !  They 

343 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

have  no  arms!  They  are  picking  up  men  from  the 
Tecumseh!  For  God's  sake,  don't  fire  on  them!" 

"Thank  God!"  cried  the  general,  greatly  relieved. 
"Pass  the  word  not  to  fire  on  that  boat,"  he  added, 
turning  to  a  staff-officer  near,  "if  it  can  be  helped! 
Hurry,  sir !  It  is  saving  drowning  men !" 

Now  it  was  the  ram's  turn.  Willis  Peyton  had 
charge  of  the  forward  division  of  guns  on  the  Ten 
nessee.  As  the  little  boat  came  shoving  through  the 
smoke  he  turned  one  of  the  Brook  rifles  on  it.  She 
was  too  far  away  for  him  to  recognize  his  brother,  but 
presently  he  divined  the  errand  of  the  boat  was  one 
of  mercy,  and  with  chivalric  gallantry — for  which, 
when  he  learned  the  truth,  he  thanked  God  thereafter 
— he  depressed  the  breech  of  the  gun,  and  the  bolt, 
which  would  have  sunk  the  cutter  to  a  certainty,  went 
screaming  down  the  line  into  the  bunched-up  fleet. 
Meanwhile  Boyd  Peyton,  unconscious  of  all  this,  went 
coolly,  if  rapidly,  about  his  work.  He  had  no  time  to 
linger,  and  he  could  not  afford  to  think  of  the  horrible 
peril  menacing  him  and  his  men.  His  mental  sal 
vation  consisted  in  thinking  of  nothing  but  his  duty 
then. 

Just  as  he  fired  Willis  Peyton  saw  the  Hartford 
break  from  the  mass  and  head  toward  him.  Admiral 
Buchanan,  in  the  humped  pilot-house  forward,  saw  her 
at  the  same  time.  The  helm  of  the  Tennessee  was 
shifted  and  the  ram  was  headed  straight  for  the  flag 
ship.  Expecting  every  moment  to  see  the  latter 
blown  up  by  the  torpedoes,  the  iron-clad  slowly  moved 
forward  just  above  them,  waiting  for  her.  When  the 

344 


IN    THE   METACOMETS    CUTTER 

Hartford  passed  the  line  of  torpedoes  unharmed  the 
iron-clad  made  for  her,  but  the  attempt  of  the  Ten 
nessee  to  ram  was  frustrated  by  the  quicker  movement 
of  the  Hartford.  With  a  quick  prayer  that  it  might 
not  find  his  brother,  whom  he  still  believed  to  be  on 
the  ship,  Willis  Peyton  poured  the  shot  from  his 
division  at  short  range  into  the  flagship,  and  then  at 
tacked  in  succession  the  other  ships  as  they  came 
swarming  up  the  channel  in  the  wake  of  the  admiral. 

Boyd  Peyton  succeeded  in  saving  an  officer,  eight 
men,  and  the  pilot  from  the  Tecumseh,  and  a  few  others 
gained  the  beach  under  the  fort  by  swimming,  all  that 
were  left  of  the  one  hundred  and  sixteen  on  board. 
Carefully  and  deliberately  scanning  the  water  to  see 
if  any  others  were  struggling  there,  he  finally  turned 
the  prow  of  his  boat  toward  the  ship,  and  rowed  over 
toward  the  fleet.  If  that  boat  crew  never  pulled  hard 
before  they  did  it  then!  The  Hartford  had  passed 
up  long  since.  The  Brooklyn  was  just  heading  up  the 
channel.  The  Richmond  and  the  Pensacola  were  going 
ahead.  But  the  rearmost  ships  were  almost  station 
ary.  His  only  chance  would  be  to  get  aboard  one  of 
these.  Sweeping  around  to  port,  he  rowed  down  the 
line  through  the  fire-swept  sea,  with  his  flag  flying  in 
a  magnificently  gallant  passage  of  the  channel.  He 
might  have  darted  through  an  interval  between  one 
of  the  pairs  and  rowed  in  comparative  safety  down  the 
port-side  of  the  fleet.  To  do  that  would  have 
been  to  lose  time,  however,  and  might  have  prevented 
him  getting  aboard  of  the  ships.  At  any  rate,  with 
cool  and  thrilling  courage  he  chose  deliberately  to 

345 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

pass  between  tne  snips  and  the  forts  still  heavily  en 
gaging. 

It  was  one  of  the  most  heroic  acts  ever  performed 
by  a  naval  officer,  a  deed  of  cool  daring,  requiring  a 
courage  that  may  be  fairly  called  superhuman.  Pey 
ton  had  not  gone  into  the  battle  with  equanimity;  very 
few  men  can  do  so.  He  had  been  nervous,  agitated, 
excited,  but  the  first  few  shots  had  restored  his  calm 
ness,  and  he  made  that  fearful  passage  under  fire  as 
coolly  as  if  nothing  had  been  happening.  By  hard 
rowing  he  succeeded  in  gaining  the  deck  of  the  Oneida, 
the  last  ship  of  the  line,  a  slight  sloop-of-war. 

Farragut's  second  mistake  in  this  otherwise  perfectly 
planned  and  brilliantly  fought  battle — the  first  being  in 
not  taking  the  lead  himself  in  the  beginning — was  in 
not  putting  one  of  the  heaviest  of  his  ships  to  cover  the 
rear  of  his  line.  The  Oneida  being  without  support  re 
ceived  the  concentrated  fire  of  the  fort  and  the  Ten 
nessee,  which  had  passed  completely  through  the  fleet, 
dealing  death  and  destruction  to  it  on  every  hand.  As 
Peyton  clambered  on  deck  Captain  Mullany,  glad  in 
deed  for  such  reinforcement — for  his  ship  was  suffer 
ing  severely  in  officers  and  men — gave  him  command 
of  one  of  the  forward  divisions,  and  distributed  his 
men  among  the  depleted  gun-crews. 

As  the  Oneida  drew  up  opposite  the  fort  she  was 
forced  to  pass  through  a  terrific  besom  of  fire.  A 
heavy  shell  from  the  fort  exploded  one  of  her  boil 
ers,  killing  all  the  men  in  the  fire-room  in  the  most 
dreadful  manner,  scalding  them  to  death,  indeed.  An 
other  shell  from  the  ram  struck  the  captain  and  tore 

346 


IN    THE   METACOMETS    CUTTER 

off  his  arm — he  was  wounded  in  no  less  than  five  differ 
ent  places  that  day.  Another  set  fire  to  the  ship. 
Had  it  not  been  that  the  monitor  Winnebago  gallantly 
interposed  between  the  Oneida  and  the  Tennessee  the 
wooden  ship  and  her  consort  would  have  been  torn 
to  pieces  and  sunk  then  and  there. 

The  courage  of  the  crew  of  the  Oneida  was  beyond 
all  praise.  With  the  captain  weltering  in  his  blood, 
the  ship  on  fire,  the  boilers  exploding  beneath  them, 
the  men  below  dying  in  agony,  they  stuck  to  their 
guns  as  coolly  as  if  nothing  were  happening,  deliber 
ately  firing  upon  the  fort  and  the  ram  as  long  as  they 
were  within  range.  Helpless  themselves,  they  were 
carried  up  the  channel  by  the  valiant  efforts  of  their 
little  consort,  the  Galena,  and  the  inrushing  tide,  as 
Farragut  had  planned. 

By  and  by  they  too  reached  the  fleet  and  anchored. 
Stopping  for  nothing,  Peyton  took  his  boat  and  started 
at  once  for  the  admiral  on  the  Hartford,  swinging 
quietly  at  anchor  above  the  middle  ground.  The  guns 
had  been  secured,  the  decks  washed  clear  of  their 
blood-stains,  and  the  wounded  carried  below  to  the 
busy  surgeons  doing  what  they  could  for  them.  On  the 
port-side  of  the  quarter-deck  lay  a  long  line  of  dead 
men.  As  Peyton  stepped  through  the  gangway  he 
asked  the  officer  there  where  the  admiral  was. 

"There,"  replied  the  young  man,  pointing  to  the 
quarter-deck. 

As  Peyton  went  aft  to  report  to  him  he  saw  him 
standing  with  his  feet  apart,  his  hands  clasped  behind 
his  back,  staring  down  at  the  bodies  of  the  poor  fellows 

347 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

who  had  been  killed  in  the  action.  Tears  glistened  in 
the  old  man's  eyes,  the  young  man  noticed,  as  he 
looked  at  him. 

The  dauntless  hero  of  one  of  the  greatest  naval 
battles  of  modern  times  was  mourning  like  a  woman 
over  his  lost  men. 


CHAPTER    XLIII 


THE   LAST    DASH   OF   THE  TENNESSEE 

OWN  under  the  guns  of  Fort  Morgan 
lay  the  Tennessee.  She  had  been  light 
ly  rammed  by  the  Monongahela,  and 
every  ship  of  the  fleet  had  poured  a 
broad-side  on  her  as  she  had  attacked 
them  in  succession  as  they  came  up  the 
channel,  and  on  account  of  her  slow 
speed  they  had  left  her  behind  as  they 
passed.  Admiral  Buchanan  deemed  it 
proper,  therefore,  as  it  certainly  was, 
to  withdraw  from  the  action  until  he 
could  examine  his  vessel  unmolested 
and  ascertain  if  she  had  sustained  any 
serious  damage. 

He  found  that  although  she  had 
been  struck  possibly  a  hundred  times  by  heavy  pro 
jectiles  mainly  from  the  nine-inch  broadside  guns  of 
the  ships  she  had  suffered  no  material  injury  save  for 
a  few  holes  through  the  smoke-stack,  which  could 
easily  be  repaired  by  her  own  force.  After  careful 
inspection  her  officers  reported  her  otherwise  to  be  in 
perfect  condition. 

The  Tennessee  was  a  casemated  broad-side,  iron-clad, 
two  hundred  and  nine  feet  long,  with  a  beam  of  forty- 

349 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

eight  feet.  She  was  armed  with  six  heavy  Brook 
rifles,  one-hundred-pounders  each  in  round  numbers, 
two  in  each  broadside,  one  pivoted  forward  and  one 
aft;  her  ports,  of  which  there  were  ten,  were  so  ar 
ranged  that  the  fore  and  after  pivots  could  be  fought 
in  either  broadside.  She  was  entirely  a  home  produc 
tion  of  the  Confederacy.  The  ship  was  built  at  Selma, 
the  guns  came  from  Richmond,  the  iron  plating  was 
made  at  Mobile,  from  ore  mined  in  Alabama.  The 
casemate,  a  sort  of  deck-house  with  slanting  sides,  was 
plated  with  iron  armor  varying  in  thickness  from  four 
to  six  inches.  The  plating  was  carried  in  an  unbroken 
slant  below  the  water-line  and  then  bent  back  inward 
to  the  hull,  the  knuckle  angle  so  formed  being  filled 
with  a  solid  wooden  backing  which  was  a  great  pro 
tection  against  ramming.  From  the  bows  of  the 
Tennessee  a  formidable  iron  spur  projected  below  the 
water-line.  No  wooden  ship  that  floated  could  have 
survived  a  fairly  delivered  blow  from  that  ram. 

There  were  two  or  three  fatal  defects  in  her  con 
struction,  however.  Her  engines  were  taken  from  an 
old  river  steamer  and  were  wofully  weak  and  in 
adequate;  the  method  for  closing  her  gun  ports  was 
faulty,  and  the  shutters  working  on  pivots  were  liable 
to  jam;  but  the  most  serious  error  of  her  designers  had 
been  in  exposing  the  rudder  chains  by  which  she  was 
steered,  on  the  open  deck,  without  protection  of  any 
sort.  In  spite  of  these  things,  however,  she  was  with 
out  doubt  a  great  improvement  on  the  Merrimac,  of 
which  she  was  a  development,  and  she  was  the  most 
formidable  vessel  afloat  in  any  sea  or  under  any  flag. 

350 


THE  LAST   DASH   OF  THE   TENNESSEE 

By  the  time  her  inspection  had  been  completed,  and 
the  few  minor  repairs  necessitated  by  the  action  had 
been  made,  Farragut's  fleet  had  reached  the  deep 
water  above  the  middle  ground,  a  shoal  extending 
westward  across  the  deep  water,  some  four  miles  from 
Fort  Morgan.  The  water  in  Mobile  Bay  is  very  shal 
low,  but  above  the  middle  ground  there  is  an  expanse 
extending  about  four  miles  each  way  which  was  deep 
enough  for  the  largest  ships  in  the  fleet.  It  was  here 
that  Farragut  had  anchored  his  battered  fleet. 

It  was  now  about  8 .45  in  the  morning.  The  decks 
had  been  scrubbed  down,  the  watches  piped  to  break 
fast,  and  the  ship  carpenters,  riggers  and  machinists, 
were  busy  making  such  temporary  repairs  as  could 
be  effected  with  the  appliances  at  hand,  when  the  look 
outs  discovered  the  Tennessee  standing  up  the  channel 
from  the  direction  of  Fort  Morgan.  The  old  admiral 
meant  business,  it  was  quite  evident.  The  black 
smoke  was  belching  from  her  tall  stack  as  she  came  on 
single-handed  to  attack  the  twenty-three  vessels  in  the 
Union  fleet  which  had  already  successfully  encountered 
the  gunboats,  the  fort,  and  her  own  prowess. 

At  first  sight  this  would  appear  to  have  been  a  fool 
hardy  action,  with  so  few  chances  of  success  as  to 
render  it  virtual  suicide  on  the  part  of  the  Tennessee, 
but  Admiral  Buchanan  may  be  relieved  of  any  charge 
of  recklessness.  He  had  commanded  the  Merrimac 
when  she  had  routed  the  fleet  in  Hampton  Roads. 
He  knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  what  could  be  effected 
by  an  iron-clad  against  wooden  ships.  He  had  under 
him  the  most  powerful  vessel  that  had  ever  been  con- 

351 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

structed.  He  had  been  unable  to  make  use  of  his 
greatest  power  of  offence,  the  ram,  in  the  passage 
of  the  ships  through  the  narrow  channel,  but  now  he 
counted  confidently  upon  using  it  to  deadly  advan 
tage. 

The  ships  above  him  were  at  anchor.  He  was  be 
tween  them  and  the  open  sea.  His  light  draught 
would  permit  him  to  go  anywhere,  while  they  were 
strictly  confined  to  the  contracted  deep-water  area. 
He  had  shown  himself  invulnerable  to  their  heaviest 
guns.  He  might  now  be  able  to  get  among  them 
and  work  his  will  upon  them.  No  sane  man  would 
think  of  matching  a  wooden  ship  against  such  an  iron 
clad.  It  is  true  that  there  were  three  monitors  with 
Farragut's  fleet,  but  they  had  done  nothing  remark 
able  heretofore  and  he  counted  himself  more  than  a 
match  for  any,  or  all,  of  them. 

Again,  the  numbers  of  the  enemy  would  give  him 
a  certain  immunity.  There  were  too  many  of  them 
for  all  of  them  to  attack  him  at  once.  Then,  too,  he 
would  have  the  advantage  of  having  all  of  his  force 
concentrated  under  his  single  hand,  while  that  of  the 
Federals  was  scattered.  These  were  some  of  the  rea 
sons  which  actuated  him,  and  there  was  doubtless  an 
other.  He  had  to  do  something.  He  could  remain 
in  safety  under  the  walls  of  Fort  Morgan  for  a  time, 
but  there  he  would  be  subjected  to  attack.  Farragut 
would  certainly  attack  him  with  the  monitors,  and 
the  fall  of  the  fort,  which  afforded  him  temporary  pro 
tection  from  the  investing  force,  was  only  a  question 
of  time.  Everything  bade  him  engage,  and  the  de- 

35* 


THE  LAST  DASH  OF  THE  TENNESSEE 

cision  to  do  so  was  entirely  in  consonance  with  his 
character  as  a  desperate  and  determined  fighter,  a  man 
of  splendid  daring  and  courage.  So  that  it  was  not 
without  strong  hopes  for  success  that  he  turned  the 
prow  of  his  vessel  up  the  bay,  set  his  men  to  quarters, 
and  made  ready  for  his  part  in  the  most  desperate  naval 
engagement  ever  fought  in  the  waters  of  the  United 
States.  Men  would  never  forget  the  brazen  effrontery 
of  that  Confederate  ship  and  her  captain ! 

But  there  was  one  thing  upon  which  he  did  not 
count,  which  was  his  undoing  in  the  end,  and  that  was 
the  invincible  courage,  the  calculated  recklessness,  and 
the  headlong  dash  of  Admiral  Farragut.  He  was  the 
admiral  who  did  the  unexpected  thing.  And  in  so 
doing  he  took  the  only  possible  means  to  meet  and 
master  the  danger.  Any  other  course  would  have 
ruined  his  fleet  and  might  have  lost  him  the  battle. 
In  the  mind  of  the  admiral  it  was  not  a  question  of 
wood  against  iron,  but  ship  against  ship.  He  had  al 
ready  determined  what  he  should  do  in  case  the 
Tennessee  attacked  as  she  was  doing  that  morning.  In 
pursuance  of  his  preconcerted  plan  he  threw  his  ves 
sels,  whatever  they  were,  upon  the  iron-clad  with 
furious  intensity  and  reckless  disregard  of  the  conse 
quences  to  the  ships. 

I  know  of  no  naval  action  in  the  history  of  the  world 
in  which  both  commanders  were  so  old  and  so  gallant. 
Both  of  these  ancient  veterans  were  heroes.  Youth  is 
the  proverbial  age  of  daring  and  achievement.  Age 
is  said  to  be  cautious,  timid.  The  lie  was  given  to 
that  idea  that  morning.  Farragut  and  Buchanan, 

353 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

both  past  three  score,  set  an  example  of  headlong, 
desperate,  risk-taking  valor  to  the  most  reckless  boy 
in  the  squadron. 

The  instant  the  watchers  on  the  long  ships  dis 
covered  the  approach  of  the  Tennessee  the  signal  for 
battle  was  flown  from  the  Hartford.  The  clanking  of 
the  chain  cables  running  in  through  the  hawse-pipes, 
as  the  anchors  were  dragged  from  their  oozy  beds 
by  the  eager  men  as  they  sprang  to  the  capstan  bars 
with  as  much  alacrity  as  if  they  had  not  already  en 
gaged  in  a  bloody  battle  that  morning,  was  succeeded 
by  the  rolling  of  drums  once  more  calling  the  depleted 
crews  to  their  battle  stations.  Down  in  the  engine- 
rooms,  hot  as  an  infernal  region  now,  the  exhausted 
firemen  and  coal-heavers  with  the  engineers  and 
machinists  once  more  resumed  their  places.  The  en 
gines  were  started  at  once,  the  ships  gathered  way,  and 
this  time  under  full  head  of  steam,  as  fast  as  it  could 
be  made  in  the  boilers,  they  opened  out  and  made  for 
the  approaching  enemy. 

Signals  were  flying  from  the  mast-head  of  the 
Hartford  ordering  the  fleet  to  close  in  and  ram  the 
enemy.  In  the  admiral's  steam  barge,  Loyall,  named 
for  his  son,  a  boat  which  he  said  was  "the  wettest  devil 
he  ever  sailed  in,"  Dr.  Palmer,  a  noble  volunteer,  was 
hurrying  from  ship  to  ship  repeating  the  signal  and 
carrying  verbal  orders  from  the  admiral;  while  from 
points  of  vantage  on  the  flag-ship  the  army  signal 
officers  were  transmitting  messages  to  the  different 
vessels  of  the  fleet.  The  slow,  unwieldy,  lumbering 
monitors  were  also  getting  under  way  as  rapidly  as 

354 


THE   LAST   DASH   OF  THE   TENNESSEE 

the  feverish  impatience  of  their  captains  could  be  im 
parted  to  the  almost  immovable  vessels. 

The  ship  nearest  the  Tennessee,  which  was  now  close 
at  hand,  was  the  Monongahela,  which  had  been 
especially  provided  with  an  iron  prow  with  a  heavy 
wooden  backing  for  ramming  purposes.  The  slight 
collision  in  the  channel  had  done  no  harm  to  either 
vessel.  Captain  Strong  was  eager  to  see  how  the  ram 
would  stand  the  impact  of  his  iron  prow  backed  by 
two  thousand  tons  of  ship  going  at  full  speed.  He 
confidently  expected  to  cut  her  down  or  overrun 
her. 

The  Tennessee  was  headed  straight  for  the  Hartford. 
Buchanan  rightly  judged  her  to  be  the  most  impor 
tant  ship,  and  thought  if  he  could  dispose  of  her  his 
terrible  task  would  be  materially  lessened  and  a  great 
advantage  gained.  Confident  in  the  strength  of  his 
own  ship,  therefore,  he  disdained  the  approaching 
steamer;  never  swerving  a  hair's  breadth  from  his 
course,  he  kept  steadily  on.  He  would  bide  the  shock 
let  it  be  what  it  would.  His  game  was  the  noble 
Hartford  and  the  great  admiral. 

Off  on  the  port  quarter  the  Monongahela  under  full 
speed  rushed  down  upon  the  Tennessee,  the  water  boil 
ing  and  foaming  under  her  fore-foot.  Buchanan  did 
not  even  shift  his  helm  to  avoid  the  blow.  She  struck 
him  fair  and  square  on  the  port  quarter  at  right  angles 
to  his  broad-side,  a  terrific  blow.  The  two-thousand- 
ton  wooden  ship  was  literally  hurled  upon  him.  The 
crash  was  heard  down  on  Fort  Morgan.  Men  on 
both  ships  were  thrown  violently  to  the  deck  by  the 

355 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

force  of  the  collision.  The  iron  cut-water  of  the 
Monongahela  was  wrenched  off  and  her  bows  stove  in. 
The  Tennessee  swung  around  to  port  from  the  thrust  of 
her  enemy. 

At  the  moment  of  impact  the  rifles  in  the  casemate 
of  the  ram  poured  shells  into  the  wooden  vessel,  pierc 
ing  her  through  and  through.  The  Monongahela 
swung  around  along-side  her  enemy  and  at  contact 
range  poured  in  a  broadside  of  solid  shot  from  her 
heavy  battery,  including  two  eleven-inch  guns.  The 
solid  shot  broke  in  pieces  against  the  casemate  or 
bounded  back  like  balls.  Except  for  a  slight  list  to 
starboard,  nothing  happened  to  the  Tennessee,  which 
kept  steadily  on  toward  the  Hartford. 

Meanwhile  from  the  same  side  came  the  Lackawanna, 
the  fastest  vessel  in  the  Union  fleet,  at  a  speed  of 
twelve  knots  an  hour,  which  was  very  high  for  those 
days.  She  too  was  gallantly  hurled  upon  the  Ten 
nessee,  which  she  struck  fair  amidships  to  port.  Cap 
tain  Marchand  had  no  iron  cut-water,  his  ship  had  not 
been  designed  for  ramming,  no  special  provision  had 
been  made  to  enable  her  to  stand  such  a  shock.  He 
did  not  hesitate  on  that  account.  With  the  admiral's 
command  to  warrant  him,  and  under  the  eye  of  his 
great  captain,  he  threw  his  ship  on  the  enemy. 

Such  was  the  force  of  the  blow  that  the  bow  of  the 
Lackawanna  was  stove  in  from  five  feet  above  to  three 
feet  below  the  water-line.  Owing  to  the  slant  of  the 
casemate  of  the  iron-clad,  the  shattered  bows  of  the 
Lackawanna,  her  screws  churning  the  water  madly  as 
Marchand  strove  to  force  her  to  override  the  ram, 

356 


THE  LAST   DASH   OF   THE   TENNESSEE 

actually  rose  out  of  the  water  and  slid  upward  along 
the  slanting  iron-plated  sides.  Again  the  deadly  rifles 
on  the  Tennessee  rang  out,  raking  the  Lackawanna 
from  bow  to  stern.  As  his  ship  slipped  off  Marchand 
swung  to  port  and  poured  in  another  futile  broadside 
from  his  heavy  battery  at  close  range  upon  his  mighty 
and  disdainful  antagonist. 

The  monitors  were  closing  in  now,  and  the  different 
vessels  of  the  fleet  heading  toward  the  ram  delivered 
broadsides  or  single  shots  as  the  shifting  movements 
of  the  vessels  gave  them  a  clear  range.  The  Tennessee 
was  attacked  by  ships  on  both  sides,  and  fore  and  aft 
as  well.  All  of  her  guns  were  in  action  at  the  same  in 
stant.  A  mass  of  flame  and  smoke  and  roaring  guns, 
she  shook  herself  free  and  swept  up  the  bay,  and 
straight  at  her  came  the  Hartford. 

Both  vessels  were  under  full  steam,  and  every  avail 
able  ounce  of  power  was  churning  the  screws.  They 
approached  each  other  bows  on.  The  prolongation  of 
their  keels  would  have  made  a  singularly  straight  line. 
If  the  Tennessee  struck  the  Hartford  in  that  way  she 
would  tear  the  whole  bow  out  of  her.  Both  vessels 
would  be  telescoped,  the  Hartford  would  infallibly 
sink,  but  she  would  overrun  the  Tennessee  and  it 
would  be  impossible  for  the  iron-clad  to  back  away 
before  being  carried  down  by  the  Hartford. 

The  officers  of  the  squadron  who  could  see  through 
the  smoke  the  two  vessels  rushing  at  each  other  fairly 
held  their  breath  with  anxiety  and  terror.  Forward 
on  the  Hartford,  leaning  over  the  bows  endeavoring 
to  peer  down  through  the  smoke  at  his  approaching 

357 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

enemy,  stood  Drayton.  Aft  on  the  port  mizzen  rig 
ging,  standing  on  the  sheer  poles,  clinging  to  the 
forward  swifter,  the  admiral  leaned  far  out  watching 
ahead.  The  vigilant  Watson  had  seen  to  it  that  an 
other  line  had  been  passed  about  him  as  before, 
remonstrating  vainly  with  the  admiral  for  his  exposed 
position  as  he  did  so.  Going  at  such  a  speed,  the  two 
ships  already  fearfully  near,  the  collision  would  only 
be  a  matter  of  time,  and  the  results  would  be  fatal 
to  both  vessels  unless  the  helm  of  one  or  the  other  were 
shifted. 

The  flag-ship,  save  for  the  throb  of  the  engines, 
was  entirely  silent.  The  officers  forward  waited 
for  the  shock,  the  men  at  the  guns  in  the  batteries 
shifted  restlessly,  the  gun-captains  tightened  the  lock- 
strings  in  their  hands,  wistful  and  hopeful  that  they 
could  get  a  shot  in  before  they  went  down,  if  down 
they  must  go.  Everybody  on  the  ship  was  of  course 
aware  of  the  situation,  even  though  most  of  them 
could  see  nothing  of  it.  McFarland,  a  veteran  sea 
man,  who  had  held  the  helm  of  the  Hartford  in  every 
one  of  her  tremendous  battles,  was  at  the  wheel  with 
two  assistants.  He  was  coolly  steering  the  great  ship 
with  the  mathematical  nicety  of  an  expert  seaman. 

"Quartermaster,"  called  out  the  sharp  voice  of  the 
admiral  suddenly  in  the  death-like  silence,  /'keep  her 
steady  as  she  goes.  Don't  swerve  a  hair's  breadth 
from  your  present  course." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  answered  the  man  at  the  wheel,  as 
with  beautiful  accuracy  he  held  the  heaving  vessel 
straight  on  her  course. 

358 


THE   LAST    DASH   OF   THE   TENNESSEE 

A  thrill  of  relief  and  anxiety  went  through  the  ship. 
The  admiral  would  try  it  out  then !  Bully  for  the  old 
fighter!  He  meant  to  sink  the  ram  if  he  could  even 
if  he  went  down  with  her.  The  Hartford  was  trembling 
like  an  earthquake  under  the  beating  of  her  engines, 
leaping  like  a  hound  through  the  troubled  waters. 
She  was  drawing  nearer,  nearer.  Another  moment 
they  would  be  in  contact,  there  would  be  a  struggle 
for  life  in  the  water.  Ah,  what  was  that? 

Just  before  reaching  the  Hartford  the  bow  of  the 
Tennessee  swung  to  starboard.  At  the  last  moment 
Buchanan  had  concluded  it  would  be  wiser  for  him 
not  to  throw  away  his  ship  merely  to  sink  the  Hartford. 
He  ported  his  helm  suddenly,  but  not  quickly  enough 
to  avoid  the  collision.  Instead  of  striking  fairly  bows 
on,  however,  the  Hartford  struck  the  Tennessee  on 
the  port-bow.  A  few  minutes  before  the  Manhattan 
had  delivered  a  bolt  from  her  fifteen-inch  gun  fair  on 
the  port-side  of  the  ram's  casemate.  It  shattered  the 
plating,  broke  the  wooden  backing,  and  sent  a  shower 
of  splinters  into  the  protection  nets,  but  did  not  pene 
trate.  As  the  Hartford  rasped  along  the  port  broad 
side  of  the  ram  she  poured  a  rapid  fire  upon  the  case 
mate  from  her  nine-inch  guns  and  one-hundred- 
pounder  Parrott  rifled  pivots,  at  a  distance  of  perhaps 
ten  feet.  None  of  her  shot  penetrated,  although  the 
casemate  was  racked  by  the  blows  and  some  of  the 
port-shutters  were  jammed  on  their  pivots,  blocking 
the  guns.  As  the  two  ships  ground  and  rasped  along 
side  each  other  the  Hartford's  guns,  served  with  pain 
ful  rapidity,  roared  out  again.  The  marines  and 

359 


THE   SOUTHERNERS 

small-arm  men  poured  a  rattling  fire  in  at  every 
port. 

So  close  were  they  as  they  reeled  and  gritted  to 
gether  that  from  where  he  stood  in  the  mizzen-rigging 
Farragut  might  have  leaped  aboard  the  ram.  Mean 
while  the  fire  of  the  Hartford  was  returned  by  the  two 
broadside  guns  of  the  Tennessee.  Heavy  shells  ripped 
through  the  flag-ship;  one  of  them  exploded  sending 
a  mass  of  splinters  in  every  direction  with  terrible 
effect.  One  of  these  huge  pieces  of  timber  struck  the 
head  of  Lieutenant  Boyd  Peyton,  gallantly  fighting  his 
division.  He  was  hurled  senseless  to  the  red  deck  of 
the  Hartford. 

The  Tennessee  was  now  sore  beset.  The  Chickasaw 
had  taken  position  under  her  stern,  and  with  a  rapidity 
of  fire  astonishing,  when  one  considers  that  the  guns 
were  muzzle-loaders,  she  was  pouring  solid  shot  upon 
the  ram.  The  Monongahela  fiercely  rammed  her  again 
on  the  starboard  beam.  Broadside  after  broadside 
had  been  hurled  upon  the  casemate  from  the  heavy 
nine-inch  guns  of  the  other  ships  now  fairly  surround 
ing  her.  She  was  a  very  centre  of  fire,  a  focal  point 
of  concentrated  converging  attack,  in  the  midst  of  a 
battle  vortex  of  destruction. 

Steaming  slowly  ahead  like  a  huge  wild  boar  among 
hounds,  she  strove  vainly  to  ram  or  shake  off  her 
opponents.  Although  no  shot  had  penetrated,  the 
damage  had  been  great.  The  tremendous  battering 
and  ramming  she  had  received  caused  her  to  leak 
badly.  Her  casemate  was  being  so  racked  by  the 
mighty  hammering  of  the  heavy  shot  that  it  was  only 

360 


THE  LAST    DASH   OF   THE   TENNESSEE 

a  question  of  time  before  the  shell  would  penetrate, 
explode,  and  end  it  all.  Her  engines  and  machinery, 
bad  at  best,  were  working  horribly  now,  and  it  was 
as  much  as  life  was  worth  to  stay  in  the  engine-room 
in  the  face  of  the  repeated  shocks  of  collision  and  gun 
fire.  All  of  the  port-shutters  had  been  jammed  by 
shot,  rendering  it  impossible  to  fire  any  of  her  guns. 
Still  she  would  not  give  up. 

Admiral  Buchanan  and  a  machinist  were  at  one  of 
the  ports  endeavoring  to  release  a  jammed  shutter 
when  a  heavy  shot  from  the  Hartford  struck  the  port- 
sill,  and,  exploding,  tore  the  gunner  into  bits.  A  bit  of 
iron  driven  in  by  the  shell  struck  the  leg  of  the  admiral, 
fracturing  it,  and  a  shower  of  splinters  did  great 
damage. 

The  Hartford  at  the  same  time  steamed  away  from 
the  ram  and  made  a  circle  to  starboard  in  order  to  ram 
her  again.  As  she  completed  the  turn,  and  bore 
down  upon  the  Tennessee,  out  of  the  smoke  en 
shrouding  the  bay  came  the  bows  of  the  Lackawanna, 
also  endeavoring  to  ram  a  second  time.  At  full  speed 
she  bore  down  upon  the  port-quarter  of  the  Hartford. 
There  was  a  terrible  sound  of  crashing  timbers  heard 
even  above  the  roar  of  the  guns  as  the  two  ships  came 
together.  In  the  awful  impact  the  Hartford  was 
hurled  over  nearly  on  her  beam  ends,  and  was  cut  down 
to  within  two  feet  of  the  water's  edge.  It  was  thought 
for  a  moment  that  the  flag-ship  was  sinking. 

The  old  admiral,  with  the  agility  of  a  boy,  ran 
across  the  deck,  leaped  into  the  mizzen  chains,  and 
clambered  down  the  sides  to  take  in  the  extent  of  the 

361 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

damage.  Finding  that  the  Hartford  would  still  float, 
he  sprang  back  to  the  deck  and  repeated  his  former 
order  that  she  should  ram  the  Tennessee  again. 

As  the  Lackawanna  struck  the  Hartford  a  cry  had 
arisen  all  over  the  flag-ship  which  touched  Farragut 
more  than  perhaps  anything  that  ever  happened  in  his 
career. 

"Save  the  admiral !"  "Get  the  admiral  out  of  the 
ship!"  "Save  the  admiral !"  rang  out  all  over  the 
Hartford. 

But  the  admiral  was  in  no  need  of  saving  then. 
Shattered  and  battered  though  she  was,  the  Hartford 
was  still  rapidly  approaching  the  Tennessee,  by  this 
time  reduced  to  a  mere  wreck.  The  ram  had  not  dis 
charged  a  single  gun  since  those  she  had  fired  into 
the  Hartford  at  the  moment  of  impact.  Several  of 
them  had  been  disabled  and  others  had  been  put  out 
of  action  by  the  jamming  of  the  port-shutters.  The 
exposed  rudder-chains  had  been  shot  away  by  the 
Chickasaw,  and  the  relieving  tackles,  with  which  the 
attempt  had  been  made  to  steer  the  ship,  had  met  the 
same  fate. 

The  decks  of  the  Tennessee  were  swept  by  a  perfect 
storm  of  shot  from  a  dozen  ships.  No  one  could  have 
ventured  out  there  to  repair  the  rudder-chains  with 
out  meeting  instant  death.  She  could  no  longer  be 
steered.  She  drifted  on  completely  surrounded  by 
the  ships,  which  were  pouring  in  broadsides  upon  her 
with  relentless  and  increasing  fury.  Then  the  last 
misfortune  overtook  her.  A  shot  from  the  Chickasaw 
or  the  Manhattan  carried  away  her  racked  and  battered 

362 


THE  LAST  DASH  OF  THE  TENNESSEE 

smoke-stack.  It  broke  short  off  just  below  the  top 
of  the  casemate,  and  the  smoke  poured  into  the  case 
mate,  nearly  suffocating  the  men;  the  temperature, 
over  one  hundred  degrees  at  best,  rose  to  over  a 
hundred  and  twenty !  Minus  the  stack,  her  fires  went 
down,  and  she  could  not  make  enough  steam  to  drive 
the  engines.  She  rolled  like  a  helpless  log  in  the 
water.  She  could  neither  steam,  nor  steer,  nor  fire. 
It  was  hot  as  hell  itself  in  the  casemate,  and  the 
temperature  of  the  fire-room  was  past  belief.  The 
men  were  almost  asphyxiated  in  the  thickening  black 
smoke.  The  pounding  of  the  shot  on  the  armor  never 
stopped  for  a  second.  And  that  armor  could  no 
longer  protect  her.  Her  men  were  suffocating,  faint 
ing,  dying.  Her  admiral  was  wounded  and  helpless. 
Several  of  her  men  had  been  killed  outright  and  many 
wounded.  The  Ossipee,  running  at  full  speed,  was  al 
most  upon  her.  The  Hartford  was  bearing  down  once 
more.  The  little  Kennebec  was  gallantly  dashing  at 
her.  The  monitors  were  closing  in.  They  were  mak 
ing  an  anvil,  a  chopping-block,  out  of  her. 

Everything  exposed  had  been  shot  away  long  since, 
including  the  flag-staff.  Farragut's  tactics  had  pre 
vailed.  He  had  simply  overwhelmed  the  ram.  She 
had  not  enjoyed  a  single  opportunity  to  use  her  most 
effective  weapon — the  ram.  She  had  been  mobbed, 
rammed,  hammered  to  pieces  by  the  wooden  ships. 
She  had  been  racked  and  shattered  by  the  monitors. 
Captain  Johnston,  consulting  with  the  wounded  and 
helpless  Admiral  Buchanan,  finally  determined  upon  her 
surrender.  With  a  heroism  which  was  only  matched 

363 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

by  the  way  he  had  fought  against  overwhelming  odds, 
until  he  was  absolutely  without  means  for  offence  or 
defence,  he  fastened  a  white  flag  to  a  gun-rammer  and 
sprang  out  upon  the  deck  or  top  of  the  casemate  in  the 
midst  of  that  awful  storm  of  shot  and  shell. 

One  by  one  as  the  Union  ships  saw  the  black, 
smoke-grimed,  powder-stained  figure  waving  the 
white  flag  on  the  top  of  the  ram  they  ceased  their 
fire  and  drew  off.  The  Ossipee,  however,  had  too 
much  way  to  stop.  Though  her  engines  were  reversed 
and  her  helm  shifted,  she  struck  the  ram  a  slight  blow 
after  she  had  surrendered.  The  last  effort  of  the 
Confederates  was  over.  For  one  long  hour  the  great 
Tennessee  had  heroically  fought  the  whole  mighty 
Union  fleet — and  in  vain.  And  to  the  admiral's  wife, 
this  letter,  written  that  same  day  while  the  excitement 
of  success  was  still  upon  him,  carried  the  tidings. 

MOBILE  BAY,  August  5,  1864. 

The  Almighty  has  smiled  upon  me  once  more.  I 
am  in  Mobile  Bay.  The  Tennessee  and  Buchanan  are 
my  prisoners.  He  has  lost  his  leg.  It  was  a  hard 
fight,  but  Buck  met  his  fate  manfully.  After  we  passed 
the  forts,  he  came  up  in  the  ram  to  attack  me.  I  made 
at  him,  and  ran  him  down,  making  all  the  others  do 
the  same.  We  butted  and  shot  at  him  until  he  sur 
rendered.  The  Selma  was  annoying  us,  but  I  sent 
Jouett  (Metacomei)  after  him,  who  in  a  short  time 
brought  his  colors  down.  But,  sad  to  say,  the 
Tecumseh  was  sunk  by  a  torpedo,  and  poor  Craven 
with  his  gallant  crew  went  to  the  bottom.  I  have 
lost  a  number  of  fine  fellows,  more  than  ever  before. 
Lieutenant  Adams  was  wounded.  Mr.  Heginbotham 

364 


THE  LAST    DASH   OF  THE   TENNESSEE 

will  probably  lose  a  leg.  [He  afterward  died.]  John 
ston,  who  married  Miss  P.,  commanded  the  Tennessee. 
They  made  a  gallant  fight,  but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose. 

My  ship  is  greatly  cut  up — twenty-five  killed  and 
twenty-eight  wounded.  I  escaped,  thank  God,  with 
out  a  scratch. 

God  bless  you,  and  make  you  as  thankful  for  this 
victory  as  I  am. 

D.  G.  FARRAGUT. 

And  this  is  the  general  order  to  the  fleet  which  the 
splendid  old  admiral  published  the  next  morning : 

UNITED  STATES  FLAGSHIP  HARTFORD, 
MOBILE  BAY,  August  6,  1864. 

The  admiral  returns  thanks  to  the  officers  and 
crews  of  the  vessels  of  the  fleet  for  their  gallant  con 
duct  during  the  fight  of  yesterday. 

It  has  never  been  his  good  fortune  to  see  men  do 
their  duty  with  more  courage  and  cheerfulness;  for, 
although  they  knew  that  the  enemy  was  prepared  with 
all  devilish  means  for  our  destruction,  and  though  they 
witnessed  the  almost  instantaneous  annihilation  of  our 
gallant  companions  in  the  Tecumseh  by  a  torpedo,  and 
the  slaughter  of  their  friends,  mess-mates,  and  gun- 
mates  on  our  decks,  still  there  were  no  evidences  of 
hesitation  in  following  their  commander-in-chief 
through  the  line  of  torpedoes  and  obstructions,  of 
which  we  knew  nothing,  except  from  the  exaggera 
tions  of  the  enemy,  who  had  given  out  "That  we 
should  all  be  blown  up  as  certainly  as  we  attempted 
to  enter." 

For  this  noble  and  implicit  confidence  in  their  leader 
he  heartily  thanks  them. 

D.  G.  FARRAGUT, 
Rear- Admiral  Commanding  W.  G.  B.  Squadron. 

365 


BOOK  V 
"THE    STRIFE    IS    O'ER 


CHAPTER  XLIV 


WITH  ALL  THE  HONORS  OF  WAR 


A 


S  the  Hartford  rounded  to  on  the  side 
of  the  surrendered  iron-clad  Admiral 
Farragut  called  for  Lieutenant  Peyton 
to  go  aboard  and  receive  the  sur 
render. 

"Sir,"  said  Watson,  to  whom  he 
had  given  the  order,  "Lieutenant  Pey 
ton  was  struck  by  a  splinter  from  the 
last  shot  of  the  Tennessee,  and  the 
surgeon  fears  he  cannot  live  an  hour." 
The  glory  and  the  joy  of  the  great 
victory  almost  vanished  from  the  ad 
miral's  mind  when  this  was  told  to 
him,  for  he  had  loved  the  young  man 
as  if  he  had  been  his  own  son.  He 
put  his  hand  across  his  face  for  a  mo 
ment,  and  his  lips  murmured  a  word  or  two,  although 
when  he  took  his  hand  away  to  give  his  orders  he 
spoke  in  his  usual  calm  tone  of  voice,  such  was  his 
power  of  restraint. 

A  few  moments  later  a  black,  powder-stained,  dirty, 
soiled,  grimy  figure  clambered  up  the  side  of  the  Hart 
ford  with  Admiral  Buchanan's  sword  in  his  hand.  As 
he  gave  it  to  Farragut,  with  the  statement  that  the  ad 
miral  was  too  badly  wounded  to  come  aboard  him- 

369 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

self  and  present  his  sword  in  person,  he  hesitated  a 
moment  and  looked  imploringly  at  him. 

"What  is  your  name,  young  sir?"  asked  the  old  man, 
struck  by  some  look  of  resemblance  in  the  other's  face, 
in  his  bearing,  in  spite  of  his  appearance. 

"Peyton,  sir — Willis  Peyton,  lieutenant  on  the 
Tennessee,  sir.  My — brother — he  is  on  the  Hartford, 
sir?  Is— he— well?" 

"My  poor  boy,"  said  the  admiral,  kindly,  taking  him 
by  the  hand,  "I  am  sorry  to  say " 

"Sir— sir,  is  he  killed?" 

"Grievously  wounded,  Mr.  Peyton.  Struck  by  a 
splinter  from  the  last  shot  fired  by  your  ship." 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Willis,  "and  I  fired  that  gun 
myself!" 

A  look  of  painful  commiseration  spread  over  the  ad 
miral's  rugged  features.  As  Willis  reeled  back,  throw 
ing  his  hands  up  to  his  head  as  he  realized  his  part  in 
the  awful  tragedy,  the  old  man  put  out  his  hand  quickly 
and  caught  him. 

"Brace  up,  my  lad,"  he  said,  "you  are  not  re 
sponsible.  'Tis  only  the  fortune  of  war." 

"May  I — we  are  your  prisoners,  sir,  but " 

"Go  to  him  at  once,  sir.  Mr.  Whiting,  take  Mr. 
Peyton  below  to  see  his  brother." 

On  a  cot  in  the  cockpit,  in  the  dim  recesses  of  the 
ship,  his  own  stateroom  having  been  crushed  in  and 
demolished  by  the  collision  between  the  Hartford  and 
the  Lackawanna,  lay  Boyd  Peyton.  He  had  been 
struck  over  the  head  by  a  heavy  timber  ripped  from 
its  fastenings  by  the  explosion  of  the  shell,  and  had 

370 


WITH   ALL   THE   HONORS   OF  WAR 

sustained  a  fracture  of  the  skull  and  a  severe  concus 
sion  of  the  brain,  He  lay  perfectly  still  and  motion 
less,  and  as  white  as  death,  save  for  the  bloody  band 
ages  across  his  forehead.  His  faint  breathing  alone 
told  the  watchers  that  he  was  alive.  In  the  hurry  of 
the  action,  after  a  hasty  inspection  and  a  temporary 
dressing  of  his  wounds,  thinking  his  case  hopeless,  the 
doctors  had  devoted  their  attention  to  others  whose 
demands  were  more  pressing.  But  these  having  been 
attended  to,  they  were  now  busy  over  Peyton.  Ex 
cept  for  that  slow,  feeble  rise  and  fall  of  his  bare  breast 
he  looked  as  one  already  dead. 

Willis  was  a  soldier.  He  had  fought  his  country's 
battles  for  four  years,  he  had  seen  many  people 
wounded  and  killed  in  action;  death  and  the  dying 
were  grimly  familiar  to  him  as  they  were  to  everyone 
in  those  days,  especially  in  the  South.  He  had  been 
trained  to  conceal  his  emotions  in  the  rough  school  of 
war.  He  had  a  man's  pride  in  such  concealment;  yet, 
as  he  stood  there,  a  grimy,  sooted,  smoke-stained  figure, 
with  the  soil  of  the  battle  clinging  to  him,  staring  down 
at  the  white  face  of  his  brother,  red-crowned  in  his 
own  blood,  a  deep  groan  broke  from  his  lips.  It 
had  never  been  his  brother  before,  but  somebody 
else's — there  was  a  difference.  The  attendants,  the 
surgeon's  mates,  drew  back  respectfully;  the  doctor 
from  where  he  knelt  by  the  cot  looked  up  at  him. 

"It's  Peyton's  brother,"  said  Whiting,  briefly; 
"from  the  Tennessee,  you  know." 

"Will  he  live?  Is  there  any  chance?"  asked  Willis, 
hoarsely. 

371 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

The  doctor  stared  up  at  him  pityingly.  An  evasion 
trembled  on  his  lips.  He  checked  it. 

"You  are  a  man,  sir,"  he  replied,  shaking  his  head. 
"I'll  be  honest  with  you.  There  is  only  one  chance 
in  a  thousand,  in  a  million.  That  last  shell  did  the 
business.  Strange !  For  he  actually  passed  the  fort 
three  times  in  a  hell  of  fire,  once  and  back  again  in  the 
Metacomet's  boat,  and  then  up  in  the  Oneida,  and  never 
got  a  scratch  until  that  last  shot." 

"I  fired  that  shot !"  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  man 
kneeling  over  his  brother.  "I  was  in  command  of  the 
forward  division  of  the  Tennessee.  O  Doctor,  for 
God's  sake,  give  me  some  hope!  Don't  let  me  feel 
that  I  have  killed  my  own  brother!  Why,  Doctor," 
he  went  on,  incoherently,  forgetful  that  none  knew  of 
the  circumstances  to  which  he  referred  in  his  agita 
tion,  "when  they  all  turned  against  him  on  the  porch 
because  he  would  go  North  I  alone  had  a  good  word 
for  him.  I  was  only  a  boy,  father  forbade  it,  but  I — 
I  kissed  him  good-by — kissed  him,  and  now  I  have 
killed  him!" 

"The  fortune  of  war,  my  lad,"  said  Dr.  Palmer,  lay 
ing  his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoulder  as  the  ad 
miral  had  done. 

Ah,  how  many  bitter  things,  how  many  unbearable 
things,  for  which  we  are  responsible,  wring  from  us 
that  futile  confession,  force  us  to  that  craven  evasion, 
and  take  a  coward's  shelter  behind  that  easy  proverbial 
saying,  "the  fortune  of  war !" 

"Damn  the  fortune  of  war!"  cried  Willis,  hotly, 
scarcely  knowing  what  he  said.  "I  am  sick  of  hearing 

372 


WITH   ALL   THE   HONORS   OF  WAR 

it!  It  has  been  flung  into  the  ears  of  people  bereft 
until  it  has  become  a  ghastly  mockery.  I  want  my 
brother!" 

"My  lad/'  said  a  quiet  voice  behind  him. 

Willis  turned  to  face  the  old  admiral,  standing  hat 
in  hand  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying  officer. 

"Do  you  realize,"  continued  Farragut,  "how  many 
thousands  of  people  have  stood  beside  one  stricken, 
as  we  are  standing,  and  have  cried  for  a  brother,  a 
husband,  a  son,  a  father,  as  you  are  doing?" 

"Yes,  yes;  they  were  not  my  brother,  though." 

"But  someone's  brother,"  returned  the  admiral, 
gravely.  "O  friends,  the  misery  this  awful  war  has 
brought  upon  this  land!" 

"Who  is  responsible  for  it?"  cried  Willis,  fiercely. 

"Nay,  lad,"  said  the  old  man,  calmly,  "that  is  a  ques 
tion  into  which  I  cannot  enter,  not  with  you,  at  any 
rate.  I  know  my  own  duty  as  you  know  yours  and  I 
try  to  do  it  as  you  do.  Pity  'tis  that  only  war  can 
teach  us  that  we  are  our  brothers'  keepers.  Poor 
boy,"  he  added,  looking  down  at  the  unconscious  Pey 
ton,  "is  there  no  hope  for  him,  Dr.  Palmer?" 

"I  see  little— none,  sir." 

"Poor  boy,"  repeated  the  old  admiral,  tears  welling 
to  his  eyes,  "to  have  given  up  everything  and  have 
come  to  this!  'Greater  love  hath  no  man  than 
this,'  "  he  quoted,  softly,  "  'that  a  man  lay  down  his 
life '  " 

"Admiral  Farragut,  for  God's  sake,  sir,"  burst  out 
Willis,  suddenly,  "let  me  take  him  home!  I  am  a 
prisoner,  sir,  but  I  will  give  you  my  word  of  honor — 

373 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

you  must  know  something  of  the  honor  of  the  Pey- 
tons  since  you  knew  my  brother " 

"I  know,  and  it  will  serve." 

"I  will  do  nothing,  sir,  bear  no  arms,  commit  no 
overt  act,  until  I  am  exchanged,  sir,  if  you  will  let  me 
take  him  home — home  to  Mobile,  to  my  mother,  to 
my  sister !" 

"And  to  Mary  Annan,"  interrupted  the  old  man, 
softly. 

"What!     You  know  her,  sir?" 

"Nay,  he  told  me  of  her,  poor  girl!" 

"She  is  not  in  Mobile." 

"Where  then?" 

"In  Fort  Morgan.  She  went  down  there  last  night, 
sir." 

"Great  heavens,  sir!     For  what?" 

"I  think  to  see  her  little  brother,  who  is  badly 
wounded." 

"Another!"  said  the  admiral,  mournfully.  "Poor 
girl,  I  hope  nothing  has  happened  to  her." 

"I  pray  not,  sir,  but  who  can  tell?  Won't  you  let 
me  go,  sir?" 

The  admiral  turned  aside  and  walked  forward  a  few 
feet.  He  leaned  against  the  bulkhead  and  thought 
deeply  for  a  moment.  Some  might  consider  it  a 
stretch  of  authority.  Well,  he  would  do  it. 

"You  may  have  him,"  he  said  at  last,  "Dr.  Palmer 
consenting  to  the  removal." 

"It  matters  little,"  said  the  doctor,  "whether  he  goes 
or  stays." 

"We  can  at  least  bury  him  on — in  his  own  land,  sir — 
374 


WITH   ALL   THE   HONORS   OF  WAR 

the  land  he  loved,  though  he  fought  against  it,"  urged 
Willis. 

"Ay,  lad,  that  is  true.  Last  night  in  my  cabin  we 
talked  it  over.  He  loved  the  South  as  I,  as  we  all  do. 
Take  him,  then,  all  that  is  left  of  him.  Say  to  your 
mother,  with  my  deepest  sympathy,  that  I  have  known 
many  officers  in  my  long  life  on  the  sea,  none  braver, 
none  better.  Tell  your  father  when  you  meet  him 
how  worthily  his  son — nay,  let  me  say  it  for  both  of 
you — how  worthily  both  his  sons  upheld  the  ancient 
name  and  the  ancient  honor  of  the  Peytons." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  young  man,  deeply 
touched.  "They  will  value  those  words,"  he  added, 
spontaneously,  "from  the  greatest  captain  of  the  sea. 
I  will  go  over  to  the  Tennessee,  sir,  with  your  per 
mission,  and  make  ready." 

"Do  so.  You  shall  have  the  Loyall,  my  own  steam- 
barge,  under  a  flag  of  truce,  to  take  you  up  to  the 
city.  Give  my  compliments,  nay,  my  affectionate  re 
gard,  to  your  own  brave  admiral.  I  am  sorry  he  is 
wounded,  and  tell  him  I  am  sending  him  my  own  fleet- 
surgeon  to  look  at  him.  You'll  go,  Palmer?  And 
Mr.  Peyton,  congratulate  him  for  me  for  his  splendid 
fight,  and  ask  him  if  there  is  anything  I  can  do  for 
him  or  his  men  now.  After  the  battle,  thank  God,  we 
are  no  longer  enemies,  but  brethren.  By  Jove,  'twas 
like  Old  Buck  to  come  single-handed  out  against  us 
all!  'Tis  the  old  navy  spirit,  the  old  fighting  blood, 
that  made  us  what  we  are,  gentlemen,"  he  added,  as  he 
turned  to  the  ladder  and  followed  Willis  Peyton  to  the 
deck. 

375 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

In  a  few  moments  the  young  officer,  having  hastily 
removed  some  of  the  evidences  of  battle  from  his 
person  and  changed  his  soiled  uniform,  came  on  deck 
once  more.  The  little  Loyall  had  swung  along 
side.  Ready  hands  had  rigged  a  whip  on  the 
main  yard-arm  of  the  Hartford,  and  the  cot  with  its 
silent  occupant  lay  on  the  deck  ready  to  be  swayed  up 
and  lowered  into  the  barge.  One  of  the  junior  sur 
geons  was  to  accompany  them  to  see  the  patient  safely 
delivered  on  shore.  But  that  was  not  all. 

The  crew  were  lined  up  in  the  gangways,  the 
marines  drawn  up  on  the  quarter-deck,  the  admiral 
and  his  staff  and  other  officers  stood  aft  on  the  poop. 
As  Peyton  was  lowered  into  the  Loyall  the  marines 
presented  arms,  the  seamen  and  their  officers  took  off 
their  hats;  there  were  flourishes  of  trumpets,  three 
rolls  of  the  drums,  and  the  shrilling  of  the  boatswain 
and  his  mates  piping  the  side  with  their  whistles,  as  if 
it  had  been  a  flag-officer  departing.  As  the  barge 
moved  away  the  admiral,  hat  in  hand,  the  wind  blow 
ing  across  his  bared  head,  stepped  to  the  side,  looked 
down  at  the  two  brothers,  and  called  out  in  a  voice 
heard  in  the  stillness  throughout  the  ship: 

"Good-by,  sir,  and  may  God  bless  you." 

And  in  a  silence  more  eloquent  than  if  the  love  of  his 
fellows  had  been  voiced  in  cheers  Boyd  Peyton  left 
the  ship  in  which  with  his  admiral  he  had  gained  an 
immortal  name. 

Far  down  on  Fort  Morgan  a  woman  stood,  with  a 
little  group  of  officers  around  her;  a  woman  filled  with 

376 


WITH  ALL  THE   HONORS   OF  WAR 

a  consuming  present  grief  and  with  dread  forebodings 
of  another.  She  stood  on  the  grassy  rampart  over 
the  casemate,  where  under  a  sheet  lay  the  still  form  of 
her  little  brother,  watching  the  battle  between  the 
ships  and  the  Tennessee;  standing  like  many  another 
woman — nay,  like  the  South  itself — over  the  grave  of 
dead  hopes,  lost  illusions,  vanished  dreams,  watching 
the  battle  going  against  them ! 

"It's  all  up,"  said  General  Peyton  at  last,  drop 
ping  his  glass ;  "the  firing  is  over.  The  ram  has  sur 
rendered.  Our  last  hope  is  gone.  Good  God,  to 
think  it  has  come  to  this !  I  wonder  if  any  hurt  has 
come  to  Willis."  He  hesitated;  no  one  had  ever 
heard  him  mention  the  name  of  his  eldest  son  since 
that  day  he  drove  him  from  the  porch — "or  to  Boyd," 
he  added  at  last.  "Good  God,  both  my  boys,  both  my 
boys!" 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly  away. 

"General  Peyton,"  said  Pleasants,  venturing  to 
break  his  reverie,  "I  suppose  you  will  want  to  send 
the  news  of  this  morning's  battle  up  to  General 
Maury,  since  the  telegraph  line  has  been  cut  or 
broken?" 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  general,  "the  Morgan  yonder," 
pointing  to  the  gun-boat,  "is  still  serviceable.  I  shall 
endeavor  to  get  word  to  General  Maury  by  her  to 
night.  Captain  Harrison  thinks  he  can  avoid  the 
fleet  and  get  past  safely  by  keeping  close  in  shore.  At 
any  rate  he  will  try  it." 

"I  shall  of  course  wish  to  return  to  my  duty  in  her, 


sir." 


377 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"By  all  means,  Colonel.  Let  Dr.  Bampney  go  too, 
and  Mary  Annan  as  well.  You  may  take  her  brother's 
body  with  you  also.  They  will  want  to  bury  him  be 
side  his  father,  poor  lad.  You  may  possibly  be  capt 
ured,  but  you  certainly  will  be  captured  if  you  remain 
here.  If  they  land  a  force  behind  the  point  and  bring 
their  ships  around  the  fort  nothing  can  prevent  our 
being  battered  to  pieces." 

"And  if  we  are  captured,  General,  we  shall  have  one 
friend  among  the  enemy — your  son,"  continued  Pleas- 
ants,  boldly,  as  he  turned  away. 

"Have  you  no  word,  no  message,  for  him,  sir?" 
asked  Mary  Annan,  who  had  listened  listlessly  to  the 
conversation. 

"What,  Mary  Annan!"  cried  the  old  man.  "Do 
you  plead  for  him?" 

They  were  alone  together  for  the  moment. 

"I  love  him,"  she  whispered.  "Oh,  my  God,  I  love 
him !  Can't  you  send  him  some  word?" 

The  old  general  bit  his  lip. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  cannot.  I  wish  him  no  ill.  I 
pray  to  God  that  he  may  have  been  spared  in  battle, 
but  I  cannot  forget  that  it  was  he,  and  such  as  he, 
to  whom  we  owe  our  defeat.  The  South  has  been 
beaten  by  her  sons,  ma'am." 

"Some  word,  sir,  some  word.  Think !"  pleaded  the 
girl.  "He  is  your  own  son.  He  followed  his  idea  of 
honor.  He  did  his  duty.  What  is  right  or  wrong 
each  man  must  judge.  They  told  me  that  you  saw 
him  in  a  little  boat  out  yonder,  and  that  you  did  not 
fire  upon  him." 

378 


WITH  ALL   THE   HONORS   OF  WAR 

"'Twas  because  he  was  saving  life,"  interrupted  the 
old  soldier,  sternly. 

"Aren't  you  proud  of  his  courage?" 

"Yes,  of  course,  but  not  of  his  principles." 

"Won't  you  send  just  one  word?" 

"Not  one,  except  that  I  hope  he  has  not  been  hurt." 

"Won't  you  ever  forgive  him?" 

"Never!" 

"Not  when  I — not  if — if — I  plead  with  you  as 
his " 

"Not  if  an  angel  in  heaven  pleads ;  not  yet.  Forgive 
me,  Mary  Annan;  say  no  more.  It  pains  me  to  say 
no,  yet  I  must." 

The  old  general  did  not  chop  and  change,  he  had 
been  too  deeply  wounded,  he  had  thought  too  bitterly 
of  his  son's  defection  for  that.  He  had  been,  he  was, 
proud  of  him  though,  and  some  day  the  girl  knew  that 
if  they  were  all  spared  the  boy  would  find  his  place 
in  his  father's  heart  open  to  him  once  more. 


CHAPTER  XLV 

HOW  BOYD  PEYTON   CAME  HOME  AGAIN 

WIFTLY  up  the  bay  sped  the  little 
steamer,  the  white  flag  at  the  fore,  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  aft.  Silently  under 
the  awning  sat  two  men  by  the 
stretcher  on  which  Boyd  Peyton  lay, 
Willis  and  the  assistant  surgeon.  Past 
the  guard-boats,  past  the  obstructions, 
up  to  the  wharf  at  the  foot  of  Govern 
ment  Street  they  came.  Long  since 
the  news  had  spread  that  a  boat  flying 
the  Union  flag,  and  under  a  flag 
of  truce,  was  coming  up  the  bay.  By 
the  time  the  Loyall  tied  up  at  the 
wharf  a  great  crowd  of  people  had  as 
sembled,  mostly  women  and  children 
and  old  men.  At  the  wharf  were  several  officers  from 
General  Maury's  staff.  Willis  Peyton  was  the  first 
man  to  step  ashore.  His  face  was  white  and  hag 
gard.  He  could  hardly  nerve  himself  for  the  ordeal 
through  which  he  was  about  to  pass. 

"By  heavens,  it's  Willis  Peyton!"  cried  a  voice  in 
the  crowd.  "You  came  from  Fort  Morgan,  sir?" 
asked  Colonel  Craighead,  General  Maury's  chief  of 
staff. 

"No,  sir,  from  the  Tennessee" 
"And  the  battle?" 

380 


HOW  BOYD  PEYTON  CAME  HOME  AGAIN 

"The  Union  ships  passed  the  forts,  captured  the 
Selma,  sank  the  Gaines " 

"And  the  Tennessee ?" 

"Engaged  the  Union  fleet,  single-handed,  after  the 
passage,  and  was  captured  after  being  battered  into  a 
helpless  wreck?" 

"She  surrendered,  then?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Why  are  you  here,  Mr.  Peyton?" 

"I  am  a  prisoner  of  war  on  parole,  sir." 

"And  you  came ?" 

"To  bring  the  body  of  my  brother  home " 

"You  mean ?" 

"He  was  wounded  on  the  Hartford." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

"No,  sir,  but  soon  will  be.  Admiral  Farragut  gave 
me  permission  to  bring  him  home — to  die." 

While  this  little  colloquy  had  been  carried  on  the 
blue-jackets  on  the  launch,  under  the  direction  of  the 
surgeon  and  the  ensign  who  commanded  her,  had 
gently  lifted  the  stretcher  bearing  the  wounded  man 
out  on  the  wharf. 

"Friends,"  said  Willis  Peyton,  facing  the  crowd, 
"you  hated  my  brother  because  in  accordance  with 
what  he  thought  his  duty  he  went  with  the  North. 
He  is  dying  now.  Will  someone  help  to  carry  him 
up  the  street  to  his  home?" 

"Let  the  damned  traitor  die  where  he  lies !"  broke 
forth  a  rude  voice  charged  by  some  bitter  heart. 

"My  men  will  carry  him  up  under  the  flag,  Mr.  Pey 
ton,"  said  the  ensign  in  command  of  the  boat,  quickly. 

381 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"No,  no !"  burst  from  the  crowd,  as  one  man  or  an 
other  pushed  forward,  "we  will  take  him  ourselves. 
Southern  hands  for  a  Southern  sailor." 

The  mordant  words  of  the  first  speaker  had 
awakened  all  that  was  good  in  the  multitude. 

"We  have  no  love  to  spare  for  him  or  his  cause," 
cried  one,  "but  we  have  no  animosity  for  a  dying 
man.  He  has  fallen  in  the  line  of  his  duty." 

"He's  of  our  people  though  he  fought  against  us," 
exclaimed  a  third. 

"Right,"  cried  another  old  man,  "I  knew  him  of 
old,  and  a  braver,  truer  man  does  not — did  not — 
live.  And  as  for  you,  sir,"  he  added,  turning  to  the 
man  who  had  cursed  and  sworn,  "if  I  hear  any  more 
remarks  like  that  from  you,  old  as  I  am,  I  will  slap 
your  mouth  for  you.  I  believe  you  are  a  damned 
Yankee  anyway.  Come,  we  will  take  him  home." 

"Tell  me  of  the  fort,  sir,"  said  Colonel  Craighead,  as 
Willis  motioned  to  the  men  who  had  volunteered  to 
pick  up  the  stretcher. 

"It  still  stands  and  seems  to  have  suffered  but  little 
from  the  bombardment.  But,"  he  whispered  to  the 
officer,  "its  fall  is  only  a  question  of  time." 

Willis  spoke  a  few  words  of  thanks  and  a  farewell  to 
the  surgeon  and  the  ensign  of  the  Loyall,  and  watched 
them  for  a  moment  as  they  turned  the  prow  of  the 
boat  to  the  southward  and  sped  away  to  the  fleet. 
Then  he  took  his  place  by  the  litter  and  directed  the 
bearers  to  go  on.  The  crowd  opened  a  way  before 
them  as  they  carried  it  up  the  street.  Here  was  the 
body  of  their  enemy.  More  than  one  suspected  that 

382 


HOW  BOYD  PEYTON  CAME  HOME  AGAIN 

he  might  have  piloted  the  fleet  upon  them,  realizing 
his  intimate  knowledge  of  the  harbor.  They  knew  the 
family  too  well  to  doubt  that  he  had  fought  bravely 
and  well.  The  fact  that  he  lay  there  apparently  dying 
was  evidence  that  he  had  been  in  the  thick  of  the 
battle.  They  had  mocked  and  scorned  him  and  hated 
him  when  he  had  chosen  to  leave  them  and  remained 
true  to  his  flag.  His  father  had  cast  him  off,  the 
people  had  approved  and  honored  the  old  man  for 
his  action;  but  the  animosity  was  gone  from  their 
hearts  now.  Animosities  vanished  before  that 
stretched-out  figure.  Restless  movements  subsided. 
The  sullen  murmurs  and  mutterings  died  away  and  a 
deep  silence  supervened.  Hats  were  pulled  from 
heads.  Awe  fell  over  the  multitude.  Women  put 
their  hands  over  their  eyes. 

A  little  company  of  home  guards,  ordered  there  to 
control  any  possible  disturbance,  was  standing  at  the 
curb.  The  officer  in  command  hesitated  a  moment. 

"By  God,"  he  said,  "I'll  do  it!" 

He  faced  about,  uttered  a  command,  and  the  com 
pany  presented  arms.  The  colors  were  dipped,  too, 
the  Stars  and  Bars  were  lowered  to  valor,  to  manhood, 
to  honor,  to  death,  even  though  they  had  been  ex 
hibited  upon  the  other  side. 

In  silence  and  sorrow,  with  every  military  honor, 
Boyd  Peyton  had  left  his  ship.  In  silence  and  in  sor 
row,  with  every  military  honor  also,  he  came  back  to 
his  home,  the  home  of  his  childhood,  the  home  of  his 
enemies,  the  home  of  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  XLVI 


SAD   HOURS   AT  ANNANDALE 


I 


T  was  early  in  the  morning  of  the  day 
after  the  battle.  The  Morgan  had 
successfully  slipped  past  Farragut's 
fleet  in  the  night,  and  while  it  was  yet 
dark  had  run  along-side  the  St. 
Francis  Street  wharf  at  Mobile.  Her 
arrival  had  not  been  reported,  and  no 
one  but  the  sentry  on  guard  was  there 
to  welcome  the  vessel.  Mary  Annan 
had  stayed  on  the  gun-boat  until  day 
break  at  Colonel  Pleasants's  earnest 
request.  The  captain  had  given  her 
his  cabin  and  she  had  lain  down  dur 
ing  the  passage,  or  at  least  after  they 
had  passed  the  Federal  fleet,  but  she 
had  been  unable  to  sleep  or  take  any  rest. 

Pleasants,  who  had  gone  ashore  immediately,  came 
back  to  the  boat  at  sunrise  with  a  conveyance  for  her 
and  Dr.  Bampney,  and  another  one  for  the  body  of  her 
brother.  It  was  broad  daylight  when  they  drove  up  to 
the  doorway  at  Annandale.  Where  before  there  had 
been  troops  of  servants  to  welcome  her  or  her  guests, 
now  she  had  to  wait  and  ring  the  bell  of  her  own  home 
before  the  one  or  two  faithful  retainers  remaining  to 
her  presented  themselves. 

The  men,  with  the  assistance  of  the  drivers,  carried 
384 


SAD  HOURS  AT  ANNANDALE 

the  body  of  the  little  master  of  the  ancient  house  into 
the  great  parlor  and  left  it  there.  After  seeing  every 
thing  disposed  properly,  Mary  Annan,  bidding  the 
clergyman  and  the  officer  to  go  into  the  sitting-room 
to  partake  of  such  refreshments  as  the  blockade  per 
mitted  her  housekeeper  to  offer  them,  turned  to 
ascend  the  stairs.  She  had  scarcely  put  foot  upon 
them  when  the  door  of  the  landing  above  them  opened 
and  a  woman  came  out.  It  was  Pink  Peyton. 

"Mary  Annan,"  she  cried,  and  the  next  moment, 
discerning  a  tall  figure  behind  her,  she  ran  down  the 
stairs  with  a  scream  of  rapture  and  relief  and  fell  into 
Pleasants's  arms. 

"Oh,  thank  God,  thank  God,  you  are  safe!"  she 
cried;  "and  my  father?" 

Before  Pleasants  could  answer,  Mrs.  Peyton  fol 
lowed  her  daughter. 

"General  Peyton?"  she  cried. 

"Well,  madam." 

"His  wound?" 

"A  trifle." 

"God  be  praised  S"  ejaculated  the  woman,  brokenly. 

"The  general  is  safe,  and  Willis.     If  only " 

"And  what  of  Boyd?"  cried  Mary  Annan,  sharply, 
instantly  suspicious  of  the  pause. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Mrs.  Peyton,  coming  down 
the  stairs  and  taking  the  girl  by  the  hand. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?     Have  you  news  of  him?" 

"He  is  here,  sister,"  cried  Tempe,  bursting  upon 
them  and  clasping  her  sister  in  her  arms,  "he  is  in  here 
— in  your  room  upstairs."  , 

385 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Hush !  hush !"  said  old  Dr.  Bampney,  catching  the 
child  in  his  arms,  "don't  you  see  how  you  alarm  your 
sister?" 

Indeed,  the  shock  of  the  news  was  almost  too  much 
for  the  woman.  She  divined  instantly  that  Boyd  Pey 
ton  would  never  be  there  in  Mobile,  in  her  house,  un 
less  something  terrible  had  happened  to  him.  Could  it 
be  that  he  was  dead? 

"How  came  he  here?"  asked  Mary  Annan,  leaning 
back  against  the  wall. 

"Willis  brought  him  up  yesterday  under  a  flag  of 
truce." 

"Is  he— wounded?" 

Madam  Peyton  bowed  her  head. 

"Badly?" 

"Oh,  awfully,  Sister  Mary!  Dr.  Venosste  says  he 
will  soon  be  dead,  like  brother,"  Tempe  broke  out 
again.  "Did  you  bring  poor  brother  back  with  you?" 
she  asked,  her  little  face  filled  with  pain. 

"Is  it  true?"  whispered  the  girl,  disregarding  her 
little  sister  in  her  consuming  anxiety. 

"Yes,  I  fear  so,"  answered  Mrs.  Peyton,  taking  the 
girl  in  her  arms.  "Oh,  Mary,  dear,  only  God  can  save 
him."  « 

"Is  he  conscious?" 

"No,  he  has  not  spoken  since — since  he  was 
wounded." 

"What  is  it?" 

"A  fracture  of  the  skull  and  concussion  of  the  brain. 
Dr.  Venosste  says  that  even  if  he  recovers  he 
might  be — he  might  not — his  mind —  O  God!  O 

386 


SAD  HOURS  AT  ANNANDALE 

God!"  wailed  the  older  woman — and  she  looked  old 
indeed  now — "that  this  should  come  upon  us!  And 
we  sent  him  away  on  the  porch  that  day !  His  father 
drove  him  from  us,  and  this  is  how  he  has  come  back 
to  us !  If  he  could  only  know  that  he  is  home  again, 
that  we  love  him  once  more,  and  that  we  forgive  him ! 
If  he  could  only  know  that  no  matter  where  he  goes, 
or  what  he  does,  he  is  my  boy,  my  boy !" 

"We  were  all  wrong,"  said  the  girl,  brokenly.  "We 
all  drove  him  away — I,  as  well  as  the  rest,  and  I  loved 
him,  too.  I  love  him  now — now  that  it  is  too  late! 
May  I  see  him?  Take  me  to  him." 

There  on  the  bed,  her  own  bed,  he  lay.  They  had 
taken  him  to  her  room,  that  room  with  the  window 
looking  out  toward  the  sunny  south,  where  she  had 
looked  and  watched,  waited  and  listened,  longed  and 
hoped.  She  stood  by  his  side  dry-eyed  and  desperate. 
This  was  the  last  blow  that  could  have  fallen  upon  her. 
She  thought  she  had  reached  the  sum  of  human  en 
durance  long  since,  but  she  knew  now  that  fate  had 
done  its  worst  for  her  on  that  day  and  not  before. 
Father,  brother,  lover,  all  gone,  and  now  this  one  too ! 

The  mocking-bird  sang  in  the  great  live-oak  outside 
the  window.  He  did  not  hear.  Stretching  out  her 
hands  to  him,  she  called  him  again  and  again.  He  did 
not  hear.  The  long-pent-up  feelings  of  her  bosom 
rushed  to  her  lips  at  last.  With  every  endearment  that 
the  deepest  passion  could  dictate  she  appealed  to  him. 
He  did  not  hear,  he  did  not  heed. 

The  others  stood  about  the  bed.  She  did  not  care, 
if  indeed  she  were  conscious  of  their  presence,  whether 

387 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

they  heard  or  did  not  hear  the  vows  of  her  heart.  But 
presently  she  became  aware  of  a  haggard  figure  stand 
ing  next  her.  It  was  Willis  Peyton. 

"O  Willis !"  she  cried,  "you  have  nothing  to  re 
proach  yourself  with.  You  kissed  him  good-by  with 
friendly  words  when  we  all  turned  against  him." 

"I  fired  the  shot,"  said  the  young  man,  "that  struck 
him  down!  My  brother's  blood  is  upon  my  hands; 
O  God,  he  can't  die,  he  can't!"  he  cried,  in  feverish 
anxiety  and  agitation. 

"Hush!"  said  the  girl,  "don't  reproach  yourself  for 
that.  We  are  all  brethren.  We  are  afl  guilty.  You 
could  not  know.  It  was  not  your  fault,  but  mine,  and 
every  other  man's  and  woman's  who  urged  seces 
sion.  Do  you  remember  how  in  this  very  house  that 
day  at  dinner  I — we  all  cried  for  war?  We  were  mad, 
mad!  And  well  have  we  been  paid.  Oh,  the  South, 
and  the  North,  and  the  East,  and  the  West,  what  are 
they  to  me?  Secession,  State  rights,  the  Union?  I'd 
give  them  all  for  him !  It  was  that  night  he  kissed  me. 
Oh,  Boyd,  Boyd,  speak  to  me !  Look  at  me  just  once — 
just  for  one  moment!  Say  that  you  forgive  me!  I 
am  guilty  too.  Oh,  merciful  God,  let  him  live!  Do 
not  take  him  as  well!  All  are  gone  from  me  now. 
Let  me  have  one,  just  this  one !  No,  no,  he  cannot, 
he  shall  not,  die!  Dr.  Venosste,"  she  said  turning 
suddenly  to  the  old  man  who  had  just  entered  the 
room,  "is  there  no  hope  at  all?  Can't  you  do  some 
thing?  Is  there  nothing " 

"My  dear  child,"  said  the  old  man,  "he  is  in  God's 
hands.  All  that  my  human  skill  and  knowledge  can 


SAD  HOURS  AT  ANNANDALE 

do  has  been  done.  My  colleagues  who  have  seen  him 
have  pronounced  his  case  hopeless.  For  myself  I 
think  there  is  a  little  chance,  but — well,  I  will  tell  you 
all — if  he  does  recover  the  probabilities  are — that — that 
his  mind  will  be  affected." 

"I  would  rather  see  him  dead  than  that !" 

"And  I,"  added  his  mother. 

"Oh,  if  he  could  only  know  that  I  love  him,  or  if 
I  could  only  know  that  he  cared  before " 

"You  may  know,  dear,"  said  the  older  woman,  "I 
found  this  letter  in  his  jacket.  It  was  addressed  to 
me,  and  this  to  you  was  inclosed  in  it." 

"Give  it  to  me,"  cried  the  girl  taking  it  eagerly  from 
the  hand  of  Madam  Peyton. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  as  she  tore  open  the  envelope, 
a  little  flicker  of  light  in  her  sad  face  as  she  read  it 
rapidly,  "I  thank  God  for  this  mercy  at  least.  He 
loves  me,  he  loves  me !  Oh,  Dr.  Venosste,  we  will  call 
him  back!  He  shall  speak  again!  His  eyes  shall 
open!  And  his  mind,  like  his  heart,  will  be  true. 
God  could  not  deny  it  to  love  like  ours!" 


CHAPTER  XLVII 


BOYD  PEYTON  SEES  A  VISION 

HE  first  thing  of  which  Boyd  Peyton 
was  conscious  was  the  song  of  a  bird. 
The  high,  clear  notes  seemed  to  beat  in 
upon  his  personality.  They  came  to 
him  apparently  from  afar  off,  from  a 
great  distance.  They  stole  into  his 
consciousness,  through  his  dull  and 
drowsy  ear,  with  increasing  vibration 
and  volume.  He  wondered  vaguely 
what  it  could  be.  The  melody  pleased 
him.  It  was  reminiscent  of  something 
sweet  in  the  memory.  He  lay  with  a 
delicious  sense  of  rest  and  peace,  and 
let  the  music  permeate  his  tired  soul. 

Presently  it  burst  upon  him  that  the 
sound  came  from  the  full  throat  of  a  mocking-bird. 
A  mocking-bird !  That  recalled  Mary  Annan  to  him. 
He  lay  quiet  and  still,  thinking  vaguely  of  her.  There 
was  a  strange  indisposition  to  move  in  his  mind  as  he 
thought  of  her.  Fragments  of  ideas,  bits  of  recollec 
tion,  whirled  about  in  his  head.  They  began  to  as 
semble  by  degrees  and  take  shape — her  shape.  He 
could  see  her  at  last,  beautiful,  winning — kind!  He 
hesitated  to  open  his  eyes,  fearing  lest  he  should  dispel 
the  vision. 

390 


BOYD  PEYTON  SEES  A  VISION 

After  a  while  the  song  stopped  and  the  figure  faded 
away.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  looked  about  him. 
He  saw  things  dimly  through  a  whirl  of  mist  and  mo 
tion.  He  could  not  recognize  or  localize  objects,  but 
he  could  perceive  enough  to  know  that  this  was  not 
his  berth,  or  state-room,  on  the  Hartford.  He  missed 
the  heaving  of  the  ship.  The  place  was  strangely 
motionless.  Instead  of  the  smell  of  tar  and  paint  a 
delicious  fragrance  filled  the  room,  a  fragrance  that 
like  the  mocking-bird  called  up  the  days  of  the  past, 
hours  of  youth  and  love,  and  Mary  Annan. 

Where  was  he?  Ah,  it  was  a  room.  There  before 
him,  framed  in  white  draperies,  was  an  opening.  Pres 
ently  he  made  out  a  green  mass  of  foliage  beyond,  a 
live-oak,  stirred  by  the  gentle  breeze.  He  was  lying 
upon  a  bed,  he  discovered.  Whose  room  could  it  be? 
What  had  happened?  He  remembered  by  and  by  the 
roar  of  the  cannon,  the  beating  throb  of  the  mighty 
engines,  the  crash  of  timbers,  the  scream  of  shells. 
He  had  been  on  the  Hartford.  Yes,  that  was  it,  with 
the  great  admiral.  They  were  approaching  the 
Tennessee.  He  had  the  lock-string  of  the  forward  pivot 
in  his  hand.  He  had  pulled  it.  Then  what  had  hap 
pened? 

He  thought  deeply.  At  last  he  arrived  at  the  con 
clusion  that  he  had  been  wounded.  Where  had  he 
been  wounded?  He  felt  a  strange  inability  to  move 
hand  or  foot,  apparently,  yet  he  seemed  to  feel  that 
he  possessed  all  his  members.  He  happened  to  turn 
his  eyes  upward  in  his  speculations,  and  the  white  line 
of  a  bandage  showed  dimly  across  his  brow  above 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

them.  What  did  that  mean?  A  blow  on  the  head, 
perhaps.  Yes,  that  was  it.  He  had  been  struck  on 
the  head. 

What  had  they  done  to  him?  Where  was  he  now? 
In  a  house  somewhere  on  the  shore  evidently.  But 
whose  house  and  where?  It  could  not  be  Pensacola, 
it  was  not  the  hospital  there,  nor  the  fort.  What 
could  it  be?  Had  the  admiral — ah,  was  it  Mobile? 
Mobile  and  Mary  Annan?  What  was  that  sound?  A 
footstep  on  the  floor,  a  dark  figure  bent  over  him. 
He  heard  voices.  Surprise,  relief,  anxiety  in  their 
tones.  They  were  saying  something.  He  strove 
desperately  to  catch  the  meaning.  It  had  been  so 
long  since  he  had  heard  and  recognized  a  voice.  What 
were  they  saying? 

"His  eyes  are  open.  I  believe  he  is  conscious  at 
last.  Willis,  call  Dr.  Venosste  at  once." 

He  knew  now.  It  was  his  mother's  voice.  And 
that  other,  who  had  cried,  'Thank  God !"  as  he  hurried 
from  the  room,  was  his  brother. 

"Mother,"  he  whispered. 

Another  figure  approached  him,  hung  over  him, 
swam  into  the  field  of  his  vision.  Eyes  that  he  had 
dreamed  of  looked  love  into  his  own,  a  voice  that  he 
could  never  forget  called  his  name. 

"Mary  Annan,"  he  whispered,  joyously,  wonder- 
ingly,  fearfully,  and  then  fainted  away  into  insensibility 
again.  The  shock  of  her  presence  had  caused  him  to 
lose  consciousness  once  more. 

As  the  lig-ht  went  out  of  his  eyes  the  woman  who 
had  bent  over  him  with  such  rapture  in  her  heart  as  an 

392 


Another  figure  approached  him,  hung  over  him. 


BOYD  PEYTON  SEES  A  VISION 

angel  in  heaven  might  have  envied  was  paralyzed  with 
terror.  Had  God  given  him  sight  of  her,  knowledge 
of  her,  recognition  of  her,  had  strength  been  be 
stowed  upon  him  to  call  her  name,  merely  that  he 
should  die  in  the  recognition? 

Dr.  Venosste  speedily  reassured  the  two  women  by 
telling  them  that  such  things  often  happen  in  concus 
sions  of  the  brain.  Any  sudden  shock  after  conscious 
ness  had  been  recovered  was  apt  to  throw  the  patient 
into  unconsciousness  again,  but  the  recovery  there 
from  would  be  speedy  and  sure  unless  the  shock  were 
too  great. 

For  the  first  time  the  old  doctor  stated  that  unless 
complications  ensued  Peyton  would  get  well.  And 
better  still,  when  he  learned  of  that  flash  of  recogni 
tion,  he  said  that  his  mind  would  be  clear  as  well. 
Such  a  siege  as  the  women  had  gone  through  with 
him  can  scarcely  be  imagined.  They  had  been  sus 
tained  by  that  wonderful  power  which  enables  women 
to  bear  strains  and  fatigues  which  would  kill  the 
strongest  man  out  of  hand.  It  was  not  until  now, 
when  the  doctor  had  given  them  the  first  definite 
ray  of  hope,  that  they  realized  what  they  had  gone 
through,  and  how  utterly  worn  out  they  were. 

Summer  had  faded  away  into  autumn  and  winter 
was  fast  approaching  when  Boyd  Peyton  was  at  last 
pronounced  out  of  danger. 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 


MARY    ANNAN    BEGS    FORGIVENESS 


W 


EAK,  feeble,  almost  helpless,  a  ghost 
of  himself,  in  fact,  Boyd  Peyton  was 
yet  on  the  royal  road  to  recovery. 
After  his  first  sight  of  her  he  had  seen 
nothing  more  of  Mary  Annan.  When 
Dr.  Venosste  had  assured  her  that  he 
would  get  well  his  mother  had  gone 
away,  and  he  had  not  seen  her  either. 
Fort  Morgan  had  fallen  after  an  heroic 
defence,  before  the  combined  assaults 
of  ships  and  army,  but  its  flag  had  not 
come  down  until  it  had  been  ham 
mered  to  ruins  by  the  fierce  bombard 
ment  and  not  a  gun  had  been  left  ser 
viceable.  General  Peyton  had  been 
sent  North  as  a  prisoner  of  war  and  Madame  Peyton 
had  accompanied  him.  Willis  had  been  exchanged  and 
was  now  with  General  Maury's  army  defending  Mo 
bile.  The  care  of  the  Annandale  household  had  been 
left  to  Pink  and  little  Tempe,  for  when  Boyd  Peyton's 
recovery  had  seemed  assured  Mary  Annan  had  given 
way  under  the  strains  and  anxieties  and  bereavements 
she  had  sustained.  She  had  borne  up  heroically  so 
long  as  there  had  been  any  doubt  and  so  long  as  there 
had  been  need  for  her,  but  when  assurance  came  that 

394 


MARY  ANNAN  BEGS  FORGIVENESS 

her  lover's  life  would  be  spared  she  had  given  way  com 
pletely. 

Poor  Pink,  encouraged  and  cheered  by  brief  visits 
from  Pleasants  whenever  his  duties  permitted  him  to 
come  across  to  Mobile,  and  assisted  by  one  or  two  of 
the  old  slaves  who  still  remained  faithful,  had  done 
nobly  by  the  sufferers.  Dr.  Bampney  had  been  kind 
ness  itself,  but  there  were  many  sick  and  there  was 
much  suffering  in  Mobile  during  those  last  months  of 
close  and  final  blockade,  and  he  could  only  give  them 
a  small  portion  of  his  time.  So  Pink  had  mainly  been 
compelled  to  worry  along  alone !  Utterly  unused  to 
responsibilities  of  any  kind,  she  had  risen  to  the  situa 
tion  nobly,  and  the  two  patients  owed  their  lives  to  her 
vigilant  attention. 

Peyton  had  begged  so  hard  and  so  constantly  to 
see  Mary  Annan  that  Dr.  Venosste  had  at  last  given 
his  permission.  The  girl  had  been  miserably  ill,  but 
was  now  somewhat  better,  and  the  old  doctor  hoped 
that  the  interview  might  benefit  them  both.  Willis 
and  Pleasants  had  come  that  afternoon  to  carry  him 
into  her  room.  Peyton  had  insisted  upon  being 
dressed  in  his  uniform  as  a  United  States  naval  officer, 
his  clothing  having  been  sent  him  under  a  flag  by  the 
thoughtfulness  of  the  old  admiral,  before  he  went 
North  on  a  well-earned  leave  of  absence.  He  had  a 
strange  fancy  that  if  she  loved  him  she  must  take  him 
in  the  uniform  of  the  Union.  It  was  in  that  uniform 
that  she  had  rejected  him.  It  was  in  it  that  she  must 
take  him  back.  Willis  and  Pleasants  found  him  ready 
when  they  came. 

395 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

Willis  had  never  ceased  to  be  thankful  that  his 
brother's  life  had  been  spared.  He  never  would  for 
get  the  sensations  that  had  come  over  him  when  he 
had  learned  that  he  had  fired  that  shot  that  had  stricken 
him  down.  He  would  have  cheerfully  given  his  own 
life  a  dozen  times  for  his  brother's  if  there  had  been 
no  other  way  to  save  him.  The  affection  between  the 
two  young  men  was  very  strong  indeed.  Boyd  had 
never  forgotten  that  Willis  alone  of  his  family  had 
bidden  him  God-speed  when  he  went  from  Mobile 
years  before.  And  Pleasants,  whom  he  had  always 
liked,  and  who  was  betrothed  to  his  sister,  who  had 
been  good  to  Mary  Annan,  had  been  very  kind  to 
him  also.  He  was  glad  to  see  the  young  men,  but  he 
could  scarcely  wait  until  they  lifted  him  up  in  the 
wicker  chair  to  carry  him  into  the  room,  that  had  been 
her  father's,  where  Mary  Annan  lay. 

The  two  men  set  the  chair  down  close  to  the  side  of 
the  bed.  Then  with  a  word  of  cheer  to  the  sick 
woman  they  turned  and  left  the  room. 

"Now,  remember,  Boyd,"  said  Dr.  Venosste,  "only 
a  few  moments  I  will  allow  you,  and  you  must  not 
say  anything  to  agitate  yourselves.  Come,  Miss 
Pink,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  faithful  girl,  and  the 
two  went  out,  leaving  Peyton  and  Mary  Annan 
alone. 

Poor  Mary  Annan,  how  thin  and  pale  and  haggard 
she  looked,  her  white  face  framed  in  the  rich  brown 
curls  flowing  over  the  pillow;  how  wasted  from  her 
long  illness,  from  the  shocks  she  had  undergone,  from 
the  bereavements  she  had  suffered,  the  heartbreaks 

396 


MARY  ANNAN  BEGS  FORGIVENESS 

that  had  come  upon  her.  How  different  she  was 
from  the  gay,  lightsome,  cheerful  young  girl  of  those 
days  before  the  awful  war  had  come.  And  yet  he 
loved  her  more.  He  could  not  tell  how  or  why.  He 
neither  argued  nor  justified  nor  explained.  He  was 
simply  cognizant  of  the  fact.  His  heart  yearned 
toward  her.  He  did  not  say  anything  at  first,  nor  did 
she.  She  lay  staring  up  at  him  out  of  her  great  black 
eyes — how  they  shone  out  of  her  pale  face  then — with 
such  a  look  of  utter  thankfulness  and  gratitude  in 
her  face  as  a  sinner  might  show  in  being  admit 
ted  to  heaven.  He  bent  forward  in  the  chair  and 
with  his  own  thin  hands  clasped  her  thinner  and  slen 
derer  one. 

"Mary  Annan,"  he  whispered,  "how  ill  you  have 
been!" 

"I  shall  get  well  now,  Boyd,  since  you  are  here  with 
me.  If — if — you  can  forgive  me — all  our  troubles  will 
be  over." 

"Forgive  you,  dear!"  he  answered.  "I  have  noth 
ing  to  forgive.  I  only  love  you,  love  you,  love 
you!" 

The  sound  of  his  voice — and  not  even  his  physical 
weakness  could  quench  the  passion  in  it — was  like  an 
elixir  of  life  to  her.  It  even  brought  a  faint  flicker  of 
color  to  her  pale  cheek. 

"I  know,"  she  murmured,  "I  know.  I  have  your 
letter." 

From  over  her  heart  she  held  it  forth  in  a  trembling 
hand. 

"Your  letter  written  before  the  battle.  I  think  I 
397 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

had  died  when  you  were  brought  here  had  it  not  been 
for  this." 

''Mary  Annan,"  he  said,  presently,  "I  am  a  United 
States  officer.  I  am  the  enemy  of  your — of  your  gov 
ernment.  I  have  done  my  best  against  your  cause. 
I  have  given  myself  to  the  Union  with  all  my  heart. 
I  stood  with  Admiral  Farragut  on  the  Hartford  ready 
to  lead  the  fleet  into  Mobile  Bay,  if  I  should  be  asked 
or  needed.  This  is  the  uniform  in  which  I  was  driven 
away.  In  this  I  have  come  back  to  you.  Do  you 
love  me?  Will  you  take  me?  Will  you  go  with  me 
in  spite  of  all  these  things?" 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  room.  The  girl  ly 
ing  there  covered  her  face  with  her  hand.  As  for  Pey 
ton,  his  heart  almost  stopped  its  beating.  Would  she 
rise  to  this  test?  Was  her  love  great  enough  for  this 
sacrifice?  She  had  repudiated  him  because  of  these 
things,  would  she  take  him,  give  herself  to  him  in  spite 
of  them,  now?  He  leaned  forward  under  the  impulse 
of  his  emotion  and  then  slowly  rose  to  his  feet  and 
stood  holding  the  arms  of  the  chair  tremblingly,  look 
ing  down  at  her. 

"Speak  to  me,"  he  whispered,  "for  God's  sake  an 
swer!" 

"I  am  yours,  Boyd,"  she  murmured,  taking  away  her 
hand  at  last.  "There  is  no  North,  nor  South,  nor 
East,  nor  West  now  that  you  are  here  and  alive. 
Love  is  all  to  me.  There  are  none  of  us  left  now  but 
Tempe  and  myself.  I  have  only  you.  If  you  will  for 
give  me — and  take  me  back.  You  kissed  me  once," 

she  said,  "on  the  porch  that  night.     Will  you " 

398 


MARY  ANNAN  BEGS  FORGIVENESS 

'Thank  God !     Thank  God !"  he  whispered. 

When  they  found  him  he  was  kneeling  by  the  bed 
side,  his  bowed  head  resting  upon  her  outstretched 
hand,  and  there  was  such  a  look  of  peace  and  rest  upon 
the  girl's  face  that  they  knew  that  she  had  indeed 
passed  from  death  into  life. 


CHAPTER  XLIX 


THE  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  DEAD 

H,  it  was  springtime  once  more  and 
morning.  They  sat  on  the  porch  at 
Annandale  together.  Boyd  Peyton  had 
not  been  well  enough  to  go  North.  He 
had  been  so  ill  so  long  that  the  war  had 
ended  leaving  him  still  in  Mobile,  a 
quasi  prisoner  of  war.  It  was  the  i2th 
of  April,  1865.  Richmond  had  fallen, 
Lee  had  surrendered,  the  intrench- 
ments  of  the  Spanish  Fort  at  Blakely 
had  been  stormed.  General  Maury 
had  retreated,  and  the  Federal  troops 
were  entering  the  city.  The  end  had 
come.  The  Confederacy  was  no  more. 
God  had  decided  that  the  Union  could 
not  and  should  not  be  broken.  Soldiers 
in  strange  blue  uniforms  were  filling  the  streets.  A 
regiment  of  bronzed  veterans  marched  up  Government 
Street,  fluttering  above  them  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 
Their  band  was  playing — hateful  tune  in  the  people's 
ears — "Jonn  Brown's  Body."  It  had  been  a  long 
time  since  that  flag  had  been  seen  in  Mobile,  and  as 
Boyd  Peyton  had  been  the  last  to  salute  it  then  he  was 
the  first  to  salute  it  now.  As  the  regiment  marched 
by  heading  for  the  Shell  Road,  where  it  was  expected 
some  further  resistance  might  be  made  by  the  Confed- 

400 


THE  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  DEAD 

crates,  a  general  officer,  surrounded  by  a  dusty  and 
weather-beaten  staff  of  hard  campaigners,  drew  rein 
before  Annandale  House.  A  question  to  a  surly 
passer-by  elicited  that  this  was  the  home  of  Miss  Mary 
Annan.  The  general  sprang  from  his  horse,  threw  the 
reins  to  an  orderly,  and  came  clanking  up  the  walk 
toward  the  house. 

Boyd  Peyton  slowly  descended  the  steps  to  meet 
him. 

"I  am  General  Carpenter,  of  the  Union  army,"  said 
the  officer  removing  his  hat,  and  staring  at  the  other's 
uniform  in  great  surprise. 

"And  I  am  Boyd  Peyton,  lieutenant  in  the  United 
States  Navy." 

"What !"  cried  the  young  officer,  "not  Peyton  of  the 
Hartford!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Not  the  officer  who  took  the  Metacomet-s  boat  to 
the  rescue  of  the  Tecumseh's  men?" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Man,  I  congratulate  you !  The  country  rang  with 
your  exploit,  sir !  By  gad,  it  was  one  of  the  bravest 
deeds  of  the  war !" 

"Thank  you,  sir.     How  is  Admiral  Farragut?" 

"What,  haven't  you  heard?  Where  have  you 
been?" 

"I  have  been  desperately  ill  here  for  over  nine 
months." 

"Of  course,  and  we  thought  you  dead.  Well,  the 
admiral  is  well.  He  is  vice-admiral  now,  and  will  be  a 
full  admiral  before  Congress  gets  through  with  him." 

401 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

"Good !"  said  Peyton,  "he  deserves  it." 
"And  you?     Haven't  you  heard  about  yourself?" 
"I  have  heard  nothing,  General  Carpenter." 
"Well,  it  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  tell  you  the 
news,  sir.     You  have  been  promoted  to  a  full  cap 
taincy  in  the  navy  on  the  admiral's  urgent  recom 
mendation,  and  a  medal  of  honor  has  been  awarded 
you.     Gad,  the  country  thought  you  dead — they  said 
in  Congress  it  was  giving  honors  to  a  dead  man — but 
they'll  rejoice  to  find  you  alive  to  claim  your  reward. 
The  war  is  over.    Richmond  has  fallen.  General  Grant 
has  Lee  corralled.     Thank  God,  we'll  all  get  home  in  a 
short  time  now.     But  I  am  looking  for  a  Miss  Mary 
Annan,  and  I  am  told  she  lives  here." 

"I  am  Mary  Annan,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  coming  to 
the  railing  of  the  porch  and  looking  down  upon  the 
two.  She  had  heard  everything.  The  feeling  in  her 
heart  now  was  of  mingled  joy  that  her  lover's  valor  and 
courage  had  been  so  splendidly  rewarded,  and  of  sor 
row  for  the  final  downfall  of  the  South  she  still  loved 
— next  to  him.  And  yet  she  was  strangely  relieved 
that  it  was  all  over  at  last. 

While  Boyd  Peyton  was  by  no  means  restored  to  his 
former  health,  Mary  Annan  was  her  old  self  once  more. 
A  little  of  the  youth  gone,  some  of  the  gayety  van 
ished,  but  with  the  softening  touches  that  trouble  gives 
and  with  the  joy  that  love  adds,  to  take  the  place 
of  what  had  disappeared.  She  stood  quiet  and  com 
posed,  her  hands  resting  upon  the  railing,  her  cheeks 
filled  with  color,  her  eyes  ashine,  looking  down  at  the 
two  men, 

402 


THE  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  DEAD 

"By  Jove !"  exclaimed  the  officer,  staring  at  her  in 
bewilderment  at  her  loveliness.  "Forgive  me, 
madam,"  he  added,  with  the  blunt  frankness  of  a  sol 
dier,  "but  I  have  not  seen  anything  so  beautiful  since  I 
left  home  three  years  since.  I  have  something  for 
you,  ma'am." 

"This  is  Miss  Mary  Annan,  General  Carpenter,"  said 
Peyton.  "Miss  Annan,  General  Carpenter,  of  the 
Union  army." 

A  year  before  Mary  Annan  would  have  turned  from 
him  in  contempt,  and  indeed  she  did  not  relish  his  pres 
ence  now,  but  now  she  belonged  to  Boyd  Peyton. 
The  man  before  her  wore  the  same  blue.  She  would 
have  to  recognize  this  fact,  and  she  might  as  well  be 
gin  soon  as  late.  It  was  part  of  her  sacrifice,  and  like 
every  loving  woman  she  took  a  strange  pleasure  in 
the  pain  it  caused  her. 

"Something  for  me,  sir?"  she  said.  "What  can  it 
be?  What  is  it,  pray?" 

"A  letter,  ma'am,"  said  the  officer,  fumbling  in  his 
breast  pocket. 

"From  whom,  sir?" 

"Madam,  'tis  your  own,"  he  said,  producing  a 
crumpled  envelope  with  dark  brown  stains  spread  over 
one  corner  of  it  where  a  round  hole  marked  the  pas 
sage  of  a  bullet. 

"My  letter!"  she  cried,  starting  back. 

"I  took  it  from  the  hand  of  a  dying  officer,"  said 
Carpenter,  softly,  "at  the  battle  of  Chickamauga.  He 
led  the  last  assault  on  our  troops  at  Snodgrass  Hill. 
They  were  driven  back,  but  it  was  not  until  he  was 

403 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

shot  down.  I  ran  out  of  our  line  toward  him.  He 
was  lying  on  his  face.  He  had  this  letter  in  his  hand. 
He  was  saying  something." 

"What  was  it?"  gasped  the  girl. 

"I  only  caught  a  word  or  two." 

"They  were ?" 

"  Tell  Mary,'  and  then  he  said  'free/  and  that  was 
all." 

"Poor  fellow!"  said  Mary  Annan,  softly,  clasping 
the  letter  and  forgetting  the  others  for  the  moment, 
"poor  fellow,  he  loved  me  indeed!" 

"What  became  of  the  body,  sir?"  asked  Peyton,  who 
had  heard  from  his  sister  of  Barrow's  last  charge,  al 
though  he  had  known  nothing  of  Mary  Annan's  let 
ter. 

"I  buried  him  there  on  the  field  and  marked  the 
spot  so  that  I  could  identify  it." 

"He  shall  be  brought  back  to  Mobile  when  the  war 
is  over  if  you  will  tell  me  where  he  lies." 

"I  will.  You  may  command  me  at  any  time,"  re 
turned  the  soldier.  "I  kept  the  letter.  I  only  ex 
amined  the  date  and  signature  in  order  that  I  might 
find  where  it  was  to  be  delivered,  and  I  am  glad  to 
have  given  it  back  to  its  writer." 

"You  are  very  good,"  said  the  girl,  faintly,  "and  I 
thank  you  for  your  trouble." 

"No  trouble  at  all,  ma'am,"  said  the  general.  "Cap 
tain  Peyton,  you  will  be  wanting  to  go  North,  doubt 
less.  There  will  be  a  transport  sailing  for  New  York 
to-morrow  noon.  I  can  arrange  for  her  to  take  you." 

"Thank  you,  General.  I  shall  go  on  her,  of  course." 
404 


THE  MESSAGE  FROM  THE  DEAD 

"Is  there  anything  more  I  can  do  for  you?" 
"No,  sir,  nothing.     Good-by." 
"Good-by,  sir.     Good-by,  madam." 

"Mary  Annan,"  said  Peyton,  sternly,  turning 
toward  the  girl  where  she  stood  with  bowed  head,  the 
letter  crushed  between  her  hands,  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks,  "what  was  in  that  letter?" 

He  could  not  keep  from  his  voice  the  jealousy  in 
his  heart.  He  did  not  doubt  the  girl's  love.  He 
could  not.  But  what  had  she  written  to  this  man 
who  also  had  loved  her?  There  was  agony  in  the  sus 
pense. 

"Boyd,"  said  the  girl,  "you  have  no  right  to  ques 
tion  me  in  this  way.  You  know  that  all  my  heart  is 
yours;  that  my  love,  my  life,  is  given  to  you;  that  I  am 
about  to  abandon  home,  friends,  country,  everything, 
for  you.  Yet  I  can  deny  you  nothing.  Here  is  the 
letter.  Take  it  and  read  it  for  yourself." 

"No,"  said  Peyton,  touched  by  her  words,  "I  will 
not  read  it.  Let  it  be  your  secret  and  his.  I  trust  you 
all  in  all." 

"Nay,"  she  cried,  "now  you  must  read  it.  You 
shall,  or  I  shall  tell  you  of  it.  It  was  the  letter  in  which 
I  told  him  I  could  not  marry  him,  and  in  which  I 
begged  him  to  release  me,  and  I  gave  him  the  reason." 

-That  was ?" 

"Because  I  knew  that  I  loved  you,  and  only  you; 
that's  all." 


CHAPTER  L 


"WHITHER  THOU  GOEST  i  WILL  GO" 


T 


HERE  was  a  quiet  little  wedding  in  the 
parlor  at  Annandale  the  next  morning. 
Old  Dr.  Bampney  read  the  service  with 
Willis  and  Pleasants,  who  had  been 
taken  prisoners  and  were  permitted  to 
come  by  General  Carpenter,  and  Wat 
son  from  the  blockading  fleet,  and  the 
general  himself  for  witnesses;  and 
with  Pink  Peyton  and  Tempe  to  at 
tend  Mary  Annan.  There  the  words 
were  said  which  made  them  man  and 
wife.  Pink  would  marry  Pleasants 
when  he  was  released,  which  would  be 
only  a  question  of  a  few  days.  Boyd 
Peyton  could  not  stay  in  Mobile ;  there 
was  no  welcome  for  him  there,  and  there  would  not  be 
for  many  a  day.  Mary  Annan  would  not  be  parted 
from  him  again.  As  she  had  said,  they  were  all  gone 
whom  she  loved  but  Boyd  Peyton,  and  he  would  fain 
take  her  with  him  as  his  wife.  Leaving  many  mes 
sages  for  his  mother  with  Willis  and  a  plea  for  his 
father's  forgiveness,  which  some  day  baby  hands 
would  win,  the  two  and  little  Tempe  went  quietly 
away. 

406 


"WHITHER  THOU  GOEST  I  WILL  GO" 

That  night  they  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  transport 
fast  approaching  the  mouth  of  the  bay,  bound  to  that 
North  which  appeared  so  cold  and  so  unfriendly  to 
poor  Mary  Annan.  She  had  given  up  everything  to 
follow  him.  Down  below  in  one  of  the  cabins  Tempe 
was  asheep.  They  had  taken  her  with  them  to  make  a 
new  home  and  begin  a  new  life  in  what  was  to  both 
of  them  a  new  land. 

The  night  had  fallen  when  they  passed  by  the  ruined 
and  shattered  walls  of  Fort  Morgan.  There  Mary 
Annan  had  watched  her  little  brother  die.  There  the 
ships  had  engaged  in  mighty  death  grapple  in  that  last 
Homeric  contest.  There  her  lover  had  been  stricken 
down  while  she  had  watched  the  conflict  from  the 
grassy  ramparts.  The  red  flag  with  its  blue  St.  An 
drew  cross  and  its  white  stars  had  been  hauled  down 
from  that  fort  never  to  wave  over  it  again.  No  longer 
was  that  flag  lifted  upon  a  staff  anywhere  in  the 
land.  No  longer  did  men  rally  to  its  defence  sternly 
resolved  to  die  rather  than  let  it  fall  to  the  dust, 
rather  than  disgrace  should  touch  it.  It  was  the  flag 
of  a  cause  that  was  lost,  but  for  generations  its  de 
fenders  and  their  children's  children  would  hold  it  in 
precious  and  tender  memory,  consecrated  by  love,  hal 
lowed  by  valor,  made  sacred  by  death,  endeared  by 
defeat. 

It  was  night  as  the  vessel  slipped  past  the  fort  and 
headed  for  the  open  sea.  Hand  in  hand  the  young 
husband  and  wife  leaned  over  the  taffrail  aft  and  gazed 
back  at  Fort  Morgan.  The  war  was  over.  There  was 
peace  in  the  land.  As  they  looked  there  came  across 

407 


THE    SOUTHERNERS 

the  dark  waters  the  notes  of  a  bugle  playing  the 
sweetest  call  and  the  saddest  that  falls  upon  a  sol 
dier's  ear : 

'Taps.     Lights  out.     Good-night.     Farewell." 


Other  Books  by  Dr.  Brady 


44 'In  his  titles  Archdeacon  Brady  gives  his 
books  a  great  deal  to  live  up  to*  'For  Love 
of  Country/  'For  the  Freedom  of  the  Sea/ 
4  The  Grip  of  Honor ' — how  the  words  make 
the  cheek  glow  and  the  pulse  leap !  An  ardent 
patriotism*  according  generous  recognition  to 
the  patriotism  of  the  enemy,  the  rush  of  the 
salt  sea  breeze*  the  clash  of  arms*  and*  best  of 
all*  men  and  women  that  ring  true  to  the  call 
of  duty  are  in  them  all*" 

— New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 


THE   GRIP  OF  HONOR 

A  Romance  of  Paul  Jones  and 
the  American  Revolution 

Illustrated^  I2mo,  $1.50 

"  In  his  familiar,  breezy  manner  the  author  leads 
up  to  and  deals  with  the  famous  victory  of  John  Paul 
Jones  in  the  Bon  Homme  Richard  over  the  Serapis. 
A  romantic  love  affair  forms  the  body  of  the  book, 
and  it  is  a  thrilling  story,  upholding  a  high  ideal. 
There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  it." — Congregationalist. 

"  In  the  present  regime  of  romances  dealing  with 
the  early  history  of  the  United  States — a  regime, 
be  it  said,  not  without  some  height  of  purpose — 
Rev.  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady's  books  hold  a  very 
high  place  indeed. 


Other  Books  by  Dr.  Brady 

FOR  THE  FREEDOM  OF 
THE  SEA 

With  12  full-page  illustrations  by  George  Gibbs 


"  There  is  an  honest  manliness  about  his  work 
that  compels  admiration."  —  The  Dial. 

"  In  every  respect  this  is  a  thoroughly  good 
historical  romance,  in  which  story  and  history  are 
cleverly  blended.  Mr.  Brady's  style  is  light  and 
attractive,  and  many  of  the  stirring  sea  adventures 
in  his  book  are  sketched  with  brilliant  effect.  We 
bespeak  for  it  a  hearty  welcome  from  the  story- 
reading  public.  No  piece  of  fiction  better  deserves 
it."  —  The  Independent. 

¥ 

FOR  LOVE  OF  COUNTRY 

A  Story  of  Land  and  Sea  in  the 
Days  of  the  Revolution 

I2m0)  $1.25 

"  The  author  has  written  a  story  which  is  patri 
otic  to  the  core,  and  especially  fitted  for  the  day  we 
live  in.  It  is  replete  with  action  and  incident,  and 
the  lessons  inculcated  are  of  the  highest." 

—  New  York  Times. 

"  An  intensely  patriotic  tale.  ...  It  shows 
a  careful  study  of  manners"  and  social  conditions  as 
well  as  of  military  history.  Battles  on  sea  and  land 
are  described  with  dramatic  effect."  —  The  Outlook. 


Other  Books  by  Dr.  Brady 

UNDER  TOPS' LS  AND  TENTS 

Illustrated,  I2mo,  $1.50 

"  A  line  flow  of  spirits  is  as  apparent  in  his 
latest  book  as  in  his  first.  .  .  .  Essentially  the 
book  is  a  reflection  of  the  author's  experiences  as 
a  naval  cadet  at  Annapolis,  and  on  the  school- 
ships,  and  as  a  Chaplain  in  camp  and  at  the  front 
during  the  war  with  Spain.  Mr.  Brady  turns  the 
kaleidoscope  of  memory  with  pleasing  and  often 
dramatic  effect,  and  his  stories  are  sweetened  by 
the  suggestion  of  the  humane  and  cheery  person 
ality  behind  them." — The  Dial. 

"The  Archdeacon's  spirits  never  flag  and  he 
carries  the  reader  with  him  by  sheer  force  of 
vivacity." — New  York  Herald. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  A  MIS 
SIONARY  IN  THE  GREAT  WEST 

I2mo,  $1.25 

"  As  a  photographic  delineation  of  the  raw 
pioneering  life,  which  ere  long  will  have  given  place 
to  the  ripened  product  of  well-settled  conditions, 
it  has  a  permanent  historical  value.  As  a  sketch 
of  hardy  men  and  women  it  is  full  of  a  dramatic 
interest." — The  Outlook. 

(OVIR) 


Other  Books  by  Dr.  Brady 


u  It  is  long  since  we  have  seen  so  many  good 
stories  to  the  page  as  are  to  be  found  in  this  cheery 
little  repository  of  quaint  clerical  experiences. 
Pathos  and  fun  mingle  in  pretty  even  proportions." 

— The  Dial. 

a  We  gain  from  the  book  not  only  the  boon  of 
hearty  laughter,  but  the  uplift  that  must  always 
come  from  contact  with  lives  unselfishly  spent  for 
humanity.  The  sketches  of  the  noble  men  and 
women  with  whom  Dr.  Brady  worked  are  won 
derfully  inspiring." 

— New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

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IN  THE   WASP'S   NEST: 

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in  the  "War  of  1812 

Illustrated  by  Rufus  F.   Zogbaum 
$1.50  net  (postage,  14  cents) 

"  When  Cyrus  Townsend  Brady  sets  out  to  tell 
a  story  of  adventure  and  fighting  at  sea  it  can  be 
depended  on  as  a  breezy  narrative  that  will  stir  the 
pulses  of  the  reader  who  enjoys  that  kind  of  tale. 
If  addressed  particularly  to  boys,  there  is  a  feast  in 
prospect  for  all  boys  of  healthy  natures.  4  In  the 
Wasp's  Nest'  is  a  rattling  good  story  of  this  kind." 
— Cleveland  Plain  Dealer. 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  Publishers 

153 -J57  FIFTH    AVENUE,    NEW   YORK 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 
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Brady,   C.T.  B5 

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LIBRARY 

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